Not Alone
by DarkWynn
Summary: After a chemist rescues the orc that had tried to rob him from a rockslide, the unlikely pair find themselves in the midst of a conflict much larger than both of them, even as they struggle to deal with the complex feelings between them. Features an orc primarily, along with many other supporting monstergirls. Explicit content.
1. Monster in the Bedroom

**Preface:** Greetings, all! This story is the sequel to "What You Don't Know," also located on this site, although it features a mostly-different cast of characters. This particular work is long enough to be broken into chapters, however. Like its predecessor, this story is slightly dark at times, though, as always, I prefer happy endings. The main monstergirl in this work is an orc, though it features many, many others in various roles, including a dullahan, goblins, an alraune, a cyclops, and many, many others. There is indeed sexual content in this story, eventually, so know that will be coming before the story's end.

And, to conclude with a standard disclaimer: The monster girls featured in this tale, and many elements of the setting, are based off of the works of Kenkou Cross, and as such this work is intended to be a tribute to his creativity. The characters, however, are my own. Pray neither sue nor steal; I have very little to take, but I love that which is mine.

 **Not Alone**

When Roger Miralis opened his eyes, he knew that he was not alone. There was a monster in his bedroom.

He could see next to nothing, the indolent dawn sunlight scarcely drifting past the thick blinds of the bedchamber. No, it was his ears that had alerted him to the presence of the figure looming over him; the hastened, excited breaths that raced far enough to dance across his cheek, the rustling of his sheets as a questing hand navigated their labyrinthine twists, the soft creak of protest from the bedframe under the weight of a knee as his expectant assailant leaned in closer. Roger felt the tension hang thick in the air like dense fog, a moment stretched thin waiting for the inevitable pounce.

"Good morning, Priscilla."

The figure above him jerked as if it had been shocked. The bedframe creaked in relief as she straightened, chuckling in self-conscious faux-innocence. "Oh, you're awake! I was worried you were going to oversleep again, so I was going to wake you up."

"Mm-hmm." Roger sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Priscilla swiftly moved to open the blinds, the kindling sunlight flowing into the room like oil. His unusual roommate ignored the blatant suspicion in his utterance, instead busying herself with straightening her sheets, her curled tail bobbing in time with her movements. He didn't have the heart so early in the morning to remind her that she was hardly disconnected from his fitful rest; her snoring was prodigious, and in her sleep she tended to wrestle the bed so ferociously that, on at least one occasion, she had launched her pillow into the nearby hall. It made him glad that her bed was across the room from his, though, he noted with some trepidation, it seemed to scoot a few inches closer each day.

Still, he silently chastised himself, it wasn't entirely her fault. Just like him, his new orc roommate was more used to living alone.

"I'll be out for most of the day today," Roger announced, swinging his legs free from the entrapping sheets and resting them on the cool floor. "Just need to pick up supplies from Mari and Rosa's shops, enough to last through the week. You can hang the sign if you want to go out; I should be back sometime after lunch."

"Alright," she responded, uncertainly. He didn't doubt that her concern was more towards the specific shops that he was visiting than the fact that he didn't trust her to run the store in his absence. That was hardly her fault; after all, being a mere novice who could hardly tell foxsglove from feverfew meant she had little business running a chemist's shop. Instead, she was likely more concerned that the shopkeeps he had mentioned were both single monsters, not that such mattered to him.

"I'll go visit Bronda, then," she announced disconsolately, her porcine ears drooping against her pale brown hair. He watched her walk towards the hall with concern, her uneven gait much improved over the past week and a half, though still worrisome enough.

"Will you be alright to walk that far?" he asked, hardly surprised when her next couple of steps emphasized her limp. She turned back towards him, examining her injured leg with exaggerated diligence.

"I should be okay; the poultice you've been applying has kept the swelling down, and it doesn't hurt as much as it did a few days ago. Still…" her eyes flicked toward him under her drooping bangs, "It might help to change the bandages and rub on fresh salve…"

"I have time to do that, at least," Roger conceded, and she happily rushed to plop down onto his bed while he stood to gather the supplies he would need to tend to her wounds. It took a jaunt downstairs, to the store's main room, to gather the materials he was searching for, and he soon fell into a familiar rhythm as he collected them. Each day he had repeated this ritual, washing and dressing her wounded leg, watching it heal over the weeks that had passed since the incident that had brought them together in the first place.

As he returned to the bedroom, he found her sprawled on his bed, her face flushed as she nuzzled his pillow, inhaling deeply. She sat up with a blush, and he said nothing, merely busying himself with the jars of medicine as he fought the heat in his own cheeks. She mutely presented her leg, and he followed his now-familiar routine, checking the fading bruises, now green and yellow, and searching the shallowing cuts for the redness of infection. As a chemist, his training had veered more towards the medical than the experimental, and treating wounds of this caliber had only been a challenge in the days right after he had first pulled her from his cart and laid her down on the floor of his shop, her blood staining his clothing.

His inspection and treatment quickly completed, he bound the wounds once more, protecting them from the dirt and grime she would face outside his home. She offered him her usual smile and gratitude, and he nodded, reminding her he would be back after lunch. He quickly headed downstairs, knowing his tasks would take long enough that he could hardly tarry if he wanted to return in time to complete the customers' orders he had yet to fill. Still, he paused just before the door leading out of his shop, his eyes passing over his shelves packed with jars and vials, a sight familiar yet one that felt remarkably changed over the course of just a few weeks. How different would it be once she left, and this place was his alone once more?

He tried to remember what it had felt like before, but instead he could only remember the day things had changed drastically for them both.

* * *

"Your money and your life."

Roger sighed as he looked up at the figure standing in the middle of the narrow mountain path. His eyes and focus had been on the ground before him as he had struggled to avoid muddy potholes or rain-loosened rocks that could upset the heavily-laden cart he pulled behind him, so he had forgotten all of the warnings the townspeople had given him about the bandits that preyed on travelers in this region. As he stopped his cart, his hand slipped to the cudgel he had concealed under his thick cloak, though he had little confidence that he could use it to fend off anything more ferocious than an aggrieved kitten.

Unsurprisingly, the woman ahead of him was an orc. Many of the travelers who frequented his friend Mithal's tavern had warned of a band of orcish bandits that had recently settled in the mountains and fleeced any merchants they chanced upon. For that reason, all of the men of Goslar had sworn to avoid that road, even though it was the easiest route to the nearest town of Glockensburg, leaving such travel to their monstrous neighbors. Unfortunately, Roger's haste had won over his caution, and he had decided that the recent heavy rains would be enough to keep any brigands in their lairs. Apparently not.

It was surprising, however, that the orc confronting him was alone. He had heard that the bandits moved as a pack, led by a ferocious high orc. Her armor, too, looked poorly-kept, scarcely more than frayed leather straps and a few mismatched pieces, and the pale skin it largely left bare was dirty, as was the pale brown hair matted by mud to her head. The weapon she extended towards him was similarly filthy and unkempt, little more than a rough melon-sized rock tied to a heavy stick with leather bonds, but he had few illusions it was any less dangerous than the smooth-sanded cudgel he was fumbling to slip from his belt.

"Ah ah, you don't want to make this difficult," she warned, her eyes gleaming dangerously. "Just give up and come with me, and bring the stuff in the cart." She glanced curiously around him, trying to discern what could be hidden under the lumpy tarp that had shielded the cart from rain. "What do you have in there, anyways? Is it food?" The desperation of the second question was underscored by an echoing rumble from her stomach.

"Listen, I don't have anything that would be of use to you," he responded honestly. "It's just alchemical catalysts and herbs that-"

"You listen!" she bellowed, taking a threatening step forward. Her progress was interrupted as a rock fell from the steep cliff wall above them and bounced across the path towards the ravine on the other side, followed by a deep rumbling that was more terrestrial than intestinal.

In retrospect, Roger admitted to himself, the men in the tavern had also warned him about rockslides, but he hadn't listened to that either.

He watched, paralyzed, as larger and larger stones cascaded onto the path, falling just behind the orc, then where she had just been, but she was rushing forward-

Roger was sent tumbling back by the collision, upending his cart and sending delicate glassware crashing to the ground in a shattering cacophony that was mostly muted by the roaring thunder of falling stones. That was over almost as immediately as it had started, a few clattering rocks echoing through the deafening silence as Roger struggled to regain his feet, pushing off his toppled cart. The ringing in his ears was the worst he had suffered, but he hadn't been the closest to the rockslide.

A short distance away, at the edge of the rubble and where Roger had just been standing, lay the orc. Fortunately most of the rocks had rolled on past the path, but a heap of them lay atop one of her legs, while others were casually strewn atop and beside her. Her unconscious groaning announced that she had survived, but he could already see thin blood beginning to seep into the sodden dirt of the road.

She had, just moments before, attempted to rob him, and worse. Roger had grown up in one of the great barrier cities in a family well-connected to the Church of the Holy Martyr, so he had been well-educated on the fate of those taken by orcs. Had the rockslide not interrupted, he likely would already have been well on his way to her cave home, where he would suffer abuse and slavery for the rest of his short, brutal life. Anyways, she may have pushed him clear of the falling rocks, but he had no way of knowing if she had meant to, or if she had merely been trying to save herself and just ran into him. He would be better off to just leave her where she was and get as far away as he could before she woke up, just in case.

And still he found himself kneeling beside her, pulling the rubble from her body, throwing the stones clear. He quickly freed her leg, finding that swelling had begun to bloat her ankle and bruises were already spreading like spilled ink, though thankfully no bones appeared to be broken. He dashed back to the cart, yanking the tarp free and using a broken vial to start a tear in it. He could at least bind some of the more serious gashes, but he couldn't clean the abrasions here. Were he in his shop, he would have medicines for poultices, ways to wash the wounds, but here he had nothing. His shop was back in Goslar, over two hours away, and he knew he couldn't just leave her there while he went and returned – night would fall soon enough, and she would be completely defenseless in the meantime, nevermind the possibility of another rockslide.

The thought of more stones tumbling down to bury her wrung viciously at Roger's stomach as he bound her worst cuts, and he knew there was only one thing he could do, as absurd as it was. Even if her wounds were treated, she would not be walking easily on that leg for a while, and she had looked to be in bad enough shape from the instant he had first seen her. He knew his sleep would be tormented forever if he left a girl, monster or no, in the wilds to starve, or be prey for wolves, or to be deformed by infection. No, he had to take her with him to Goslar.

He couldn't imagine how he would answer the questions of the guards outside the town. Monsters were as common to Goslar as human men, but orcs in particular were rare, considering their ill reputations. He couldn't imagine what he would do with her after he treated her wounds, considering he could hardly send her back into the wilderness immediately. He couldn't even imagine what would happen when she woke up, though he feared it might involve her resuming her earlier intentions.

It didn't matter. He wouldn't leave her there alone.

He gingerly inspected her leg again, making certain as best he could that it was not broken. Feeling sure enough to risk it, he returned to his cart and righted it, scooping up the shattered vials and casting them into the ravine, leaving a bed of now-commingled herbs at the bottom of the cart. He returned to her side, stooping and gingerly lifting her from the mud, staggering a bit as he carried her back and laid her in the cart. As he secured her leg as best he could, he noticed with a blush that her attire had been dislocated by his efforts, one prodigiously-large breast freed from the leather strap that had bound it in place. With a virgin's exaggerated delicacy, he reached out to adjust the strap, brushing against her smooth, firm flesh with his knuckles and thoroughly embarrassing himself. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered as he fought to force the restraint over her nipple, his cheeks flaring incandescently. When he had succeeded only enough for it to remain in place for a moment more, he turned from that task and took his place again at the handles of his cart, trying to force uncomfortable thoughts and fleeting-yet-intense sensations from his mind.

The path was clear enough for him to make it past the fallen rocks with a certain amount of weaving and delicate balancing, so it took him only a brief while to resume his previous pace, even though he was more encumbered than before. As the path began to slope downward, he knew he would soon be back on familiar streets, and hope began to flutter in his chest. Maybe this could work out; after all, in the middle of the crowded mining town, she could hardly assault and abduct him. Surely he would be safe from attack within the confines of his own home.

Shaking his head, he pressed himself onward even as his muscles began to burn, uncertain what his actions would lead to yet determined to see his course through anyways.

* * *

The dawning sun was still struggling to ascend over the eastern hills, and already the wide streets of Goslar were bustling. This didn't surprise Roger overmuch; he had only come to the mining town in the past year, but in that time he had learned that work there rarely ever stopped. Miners were accustomed to living somewhat disconnected from the whims of the sun, which they usually only saw en route to their homes and their way back to work, or on the days they had off. Working as a miner in Goslar was prosperous enough for the luxury of resting days; considering the steady stream of ores flowing from the iron and silver mines in the mountains ringing the town, most of the workers enjoyed a stable income, and that wealth spread to those who offered service to the miners, himself included.

He was in particular appreciative of the business he had been getting recently from miners working the later shifts. While many of them came from monster races that were nocturnal, others struggled to adjust to that schedule, and so his shop had seen a steady stream of customers seeking a way to sleep through the sunshine hours. His supply of soporifics had started to dwindle, which was the cause behind one of the day's errands: a visit to a nearby herbalist who provided the components for his most-used recipes.

Both she and the other shopkeeper he intended to visit were monsters, like most of the female inhabitants of Goslar. This was a fact he still had difficulty adjusting to, considering how different it was from the city he had grown up in. His family had been prominent in one of the great barrier cities, and the magical barriers ringing them naturally repelled all monsters, so he had only seen orcs and goblins and such creatures in books while he had lived there. He supposed their presence here was part of the very freedom that had drawn him away from his family's estate and from what his parents and brothers considered civilization. His parents, were they still alive, would be horrified to see him living among such 'savages,' and he would only sometimes admit to himself that that thought pleased him. The notion that he would be cohabitating with one of them, no matter how innocent it was for him, would have made them disown him, even before his eldest brothers had forced him away from their inheritance.

Things were different here in Goslar than what he had been raised to expect, he was forced to admit to himself. He had always heard that monsters had an innate drive to attack humanity, stemming from ancient times when they had been created to prey upon civilization, before they had all been changed into more human-like female forms in the days of the Holy Martyr. Here, though, they seemed little different from their human neighbors; they ran businesses, struck up friendly conversations with their neighbors, even married human men in the town's humble chapel. Roger would admit that he had been harassed more than a few times by monsters, but never physically; instead, it tended more towards lewd propositions that sent him fleeing with a blush.

Roger slipped past strolling miners returning to their homes and bustling hawkers setting up their stands for the day's trade, turning down the street that led away from the foundries and forges that fed on the unearthed ore carted down from the mountains and produced weapons and armor that would be sold around the continent, even to the Church of the Holy Martyr. Instead, he headed into a more commercial district, home to grocers and cobblers and other tradesmen. It was one such building he was making his way towards, a plain-faced single-story shop, sooty from ash that fell constantly from the smithies down the road, with windows that displayed brightly-painted wares.

Clay chimes rang out as he opened the door into the store, and a cheery voice responded with similar tones. "My, a customer, so early?" Roger scanned the shop for its proprietor, his eyes running over crowds of jars and pots of infinite sizes and shapes, before finally spotting a shock of red hair peeking above the tall counter. He tracked its progress until its owner arrived at what he presumed to be a set of stairs leading to a platform that allowed the store's owner to gaze above her counter.

The face that popped over the counter was childish in many ways: the size and the shape and the unrestrained smile. The devilishness twinkling in her green eyes, however, was evidence that she had nefarious goals in mind, but such was typical for Mari Muckflinger, goblin proprietess of 'Pots and Stuff.' He had met her early during his stay in Goslar, and quickly found her to be the most reliable potter and ceramist in town, which was important to someone who went through as many vials and jars as he. Her craftwork more than made up for her craftiness, he had decided, though sometimes he revisited that choice, especially during visits when she had a gleam in her eyes like the one she wore now.

"So, if it isn't my favorite potionboy! How's it going?" Her too-sharp teeth shone in the light that fought to penetrate the dusty air. "Come for more vials, or something else? Love advice, maybe? More piggy-business than pottery?"

Roger rolled his eyes, shaking his head. She was even more energetic than usual, and it was first thing in the morning. "I came for the shipment of stoppered glass bottles, and to check on the delayed-release diffusers we discussed a month ago."

"Oh, yeah, those toys! I left them around here somewhere." She hopped down from the platform, rustling around in containers concealed behind the counter. "They're in a box about this big. They might be out in the store somewhere, help me look."

He didn't have the heart to tell her that he had no way of seeing how big 'this big' was over the counter that separated them, nor that his diffusers were hardly toys, but possibly the next big thing in sleep aids. Instead, he began to fruitlessly search, checking inside vases and around jugs, all but lost in the store's maze of aisles. How she or any customer were supposed to find anything in such chaos was a mystery to him, but it hardly surprised him that Mari had trouble stopping her creative impulses long enough for buyers to catch up with her supply.

A chill ran up his spine as he passed one particularly-large jar that stood to his waist, and his ears perked at the sound of the wooden lid scraping on the ceramic surface. "It's in here," whispered a baleful voice from within. He glanced back, and swore he could see the unnatural shine of amber eyes peering at him from the shadows of the jar. "Check inside, and you will see that what you seek is here."

"No it isn't," he replied flatly, continuing on without hesitation.

"I promise. Hey, come back. I swear, just look inside, and-"

"Djennifer, get out here and help us look for his toy-doodad things!" Mari bellowed from somewhere deep within a storage room nearby. The only response was the sound of the jar's wooden lid sliding back into place.

"Wasn't she in a jug by the window last week?" Roger asked, still looking for any box that showed signs of having been moved in the past year, though it seemed absolutely everything in the store was inevitably coated in a thick layer of clay dust from Mari's backroom workshop.

"She moves whenever I decide I want her to work to pay rent," Mari explained absently. "You'd think a jinn would appreciate living in a place like this, but nooo."

"You keep trying to sell me," hissed Djennifer's voice from, Roger could swear, a completely different jar.

"Then you could bother someone else's customers! I mean-, wait, I know where I left it!" Mari proclaimed loudly, her pattering footsteps racing back towards the counter. She bounded back up the stairs to her platform, and reached for a box atop the counter, not far removed from where she had started her search. Throwing open the lid, she quickly fished out a small, fist-sized clay ball. "What do you think? Aren't I awesome?"

Roger walked quickly to the counter, accepting the object from her. Much like his specifications, the diffuser was small and unobtrusive, with four vents atop its rounded surface. The bottom was flat enough to allow it to rest on a table easily, and a seam ran horizontally around the circumference. Gripping the two halves, he twisted, and it split along the seam, the top half coming free to reveal mechanical components. He scanned over the pieces, smiling to himself as he did so. It was perfect.

"Sooo… whaddya think, hunh? Is it diffusery enough for you?" Mari demanded, preening for compliments.

"You're the best, Mari," he responded, so giddy he reached out and mussed her wild red mane. "If the components my friend sent me work, then this will be perfect. I'm going to be selling so many of these here that you won't have time to make anything else!"

She giggled at his uncharacteristic glee. "Told you I was the best in town. There's nine more in the box, like you ordered. Of course…" Her voice losing its elation and turning towards regret, she shrugged, shaking her head helplessly. "It did take more time than I had expected; those metal bits are really hard to fit in perfectly. I'll have to raise the price on this batch a bit to compensate for lost time, unless…" She trailed off, her face a mask of perfect casualness.

Roger raised his eyebrow. "Unless?"

"Well, I mean, you could help me out in some other way. You don't have to, but…"

Were these words coming from any other monster, Roger would have felt decidedly uncomfortable. He had grown accustomed to Mari's eccentricities, however, and knew exactly what she was seeking, and despite the betrayal it entailed, he was willing to pay her price. "So what do you want? Information, or for me to mention you at lunch today?"

"Both!" The words exploded out of her mouth, and those following matched their pace. "I mean, my sister Meri has already started working with him, and Muri is making new kettles for him, and he sees Mori every day since she's a grocer. I just need an idea about something I could make to get his attention, you know? But mentioning me would be nice. Only good things! I want to be his favorite!"

Roger chuckled, silently whispering an apology in his head to his friend Mithal. His friend had taken on a job as the cook for one of the busier inn-and-taverns in town, and was attempting to save up for his own restaurant. Somehow along the way, he had attracted the attention of Mari and her sisters, and now the goblins were in the midst of a vicious sibling war over who could claim the chef first. Mari had once explained that they were less particular about the order after that, though Roger had swiftly changed the subject, not wanting to imagine how much trouble his friend was in for.

"I don't know… I would hate to ruin his trust in me…"

"The price we agreed on, for all of them from now on, no additional labor," Mari countered.

"I mean, he is one of my only human friends in this town…"

"I'll throw in a free pot," Mari offered, pointing to a towering clay jar. The lid extended enough for a tongue to extend out, accompanied by an echoing rude sound. Roger directed a flat stare at Mari in response, internally wondering how she could always find the jinn, and Mari shrugged. "It was worth a shot." She sighed deeply, shaking her head in defeat. "Half off the price of your next order of vials."

It wasn't a huge victory, but it was enough for Roger to finally win one over the canny goblin merchant. "He really likes swans. He said, when he finally gets his own restaurant, he wants to have a swan motif to make it look more high-class."

"Mooo…teef…" Mari repeated, her brow scrunched as she tasted the unfamiliar word.

"Decorations. He wants swan decorations."

"Oh! I can do that!" Mari cried triumphantly. "Swans, though. Those are the long-necked duck things, right?"

Roger forcibly restrained a snicker at the exuberant goblin's expense. "That's right. Just make a long-necked duck, and you've got it."

"Yeah!" Lights twinkled in Mari's eyes as she immediately lost herself in imagining what grand creations she could gift Mithal with, and what his reaction would be. It was when she began laughing in a low, ominous tone, lost in her own fantasies, that Roger knew it was time to leave. He dropped his payment on the counter and promised to return later for the other items, and hefted the box of diffusers under his arm as he headed for the door, wishing both the goblin and the jinn a good day while carefully dodging the hand that reached out of a jug near the entrance to pinch at his rear.

As Roger stepped out into the now-brilliant sunlight, he braced himself for the long journey ahead of him. His next stop was well outside of the town's confines, at the edge of a forested glade that had persisted despite the logging efforts that had fed the growing town's need for lumber. He knew that carrying Mari's box all of that distance would be tiresome, so he decided to swing back by his own shop to drop it off, wondering if Priscilla had already left for Bronda's smithy.

He was so focused on his next destination that he paid little attention to the other people passing him on the street, ignoring the lumbering ore cart rolling past, the werewolf haggling with the lamia selling meat at a roadside stand, even the cluster of armored knights riding past, carrying amongst them a banner that bore the icon of the Holy Order of the Purifiers.

 **Author's Note** : Thank you for reading this far into the second of my Monster Girl Encyclopedia tales! As noted in the preface, this story is long enough to be divided into chapters. I intend to post said chapters here on a weekly schedule, give or take a couple of days, for as long as my creative activity persists. Those that know me from other works know I tend to have frantically-dedicated periods of posting, followed by long periods of dormancy and silence... For now, though, the second chapter is already complete, and the third is quickly following in its footsteps.

For the background behind this story's creation: after "What You Don't Know" sat, mostly lost to me, in the archives of MonsterGirlUnlimited, I had given little thought to writing its sequel, even though I kept up with the Encyclopedia. One day recently, however, as I was forced to proctor a state examination, with all of the dreadful lengthy periods of silence that entails, inspiration struck, and I spent my silence with ideas whirling through my head, until this story solidified as a storyboard quickly scrawled following lunch. Some of my greatest works have come in such bursts of creativity, so I decided to fling myself at finishing this tale, and have made good progress since. I can only pray to continue along such tracks, and, if so, this work should be done in short order, being no longer than five or six chapters in total. At least, thus I predict...

Anyways, I thank you again for listening to my blathering, both here and in the story above, and hope I have earned your readership for the chapters yet to come. If you did enjoy, pray let me know; commentary, whatever its content, inspires me to the keys like nothing else, and I deeply appreciate it.

Forgive me, though. I have only recently stirred from my slumber, but my eyes hang heavy, and I need to nap some more. Now, I must sleep...

~Wynn P.


	2. Budding Feelings

The wind that blew over the mountain peaks was frigid, and sliced through even armor like a blade, chilling any that stood in it to the marrow. Though hardly the match of mountains farther to the east, this range was tall enough to loom over the surrounding landscape, and this particular peak was one of the tallest within sight. Through other parts of the year, it would be capped with snow, but even when it wasn't the path leading to the summit was not an easy one, with any reasonable route quickly eroded by the spring thaw.

That's why it had been so surprising to find the ruins of an ancient temple there.

Ceann Alpestria shielded her eyes against the morning sun as she surveyed the dilapidated structure, similar in style and decorations to another such temple she had recently visited. This, too, was a temple to the older gods that humanity had once worshiped, before the creation of the Church of the Holy Martyr, before even the Last War of the Demon King. It had been abandoned during that war, and once the current Demon Queen had ascended to her throne, humanity had begun to cluster together for protection, a habit made only more intense by the creation of the barriers decades later. Ancient cities and places of worship like this one had been left to the elements, and soon became home to wandering monsters.

Even now, she could see several such inhabitants: griffons circled in the air above, and a golem stood motionlessly near the door, her emotionless face watching the entrance as she likely had for years. Gargoyles perched on the walls framing the main entrance stared with stoic solemnity into space, paying no mind to the others, or her for that matter. Ceann knew that none of the monsters here would likely react to much aside from an intrusion of a certain sort; any human man that approached this once-sacred site would be soon overwhelmed, and at least one of these monsters would claim him as her prize.

And yet, when the doors to the ancient temple swung open, and the knight stepped out, none of the monsters moved to seize him.

The golem's eyes passed over him, and the gargoyles stayed stone-still on their perches. No ringing cries came from the griffons above as the man walked towards Ceann, his sword sheathed and his arms swinging at ease at his sides. Ceann was the only one to pay him any mind, her arms crossed as she waited for her partner to draw close enough to share what he had found within the temple.

"My apologies for keeping you waiting, Lady," he offered smoothly as he neared her. She could all but hear the smile he wore behind his fully-enclosed helm. "And you as well, mistress kunoichi."

Ceann couldn't help but jump as she felt the presence behind her, and she whirled to face the other person nearby. Sure enough, standing a short distance away was another woman, one that could have passed for a human if not for the long, thin, spade-tipped tail that waved behind her. The woman was attired, albeit briefly, in clothing that revealed her origin to be far to the east, likely the distant realm of Zipangu. More concerning to Ceann was the weaponry that the kunoichi bore; for the scantiness of her dress, hilts and blades peeked out from every crook and cranny.

The kunoichi's mouth was covered by cloth, but the crinkles at the sides of her eyes revealed her mirth at Ceann's reaction. "Greetings, my lord, lady. I bring word from our Mistress."

"As I had supposed," the knight admitted, taking a place beside Ceann. "I had wondered if my reports had reached the Demon Queen... or if she had taken the time away from her husband to read them."

"She has. She shares your concerns over the Order's interest in these ancient temples, though she does express doubt that they have the manpower to seize them from the wilds, and the monsters that dwell within them."

"Your mistress would do well do remember this isn't the Order of old. The new church is something else, thanks to the man they have come to follow." The knight sighed deeply, shaking his head. "They have the zeal to use these temples for very ill purposes, and, thanks to one old fool, they have the knowledge, as well." Bitterness dripped heavily from his words.

"My Mistress understands this as well." The kunoichi bowed slightly in acknowledgement of his worries. "She has pledged more resources to the nascent resistance you have been working with, and has offered to send some of her most powerful lieutenants to keep an eye on some of the more remote temples while we seek alternative solutions for the locations the church may move to seize."

"Like this one," Ceann interjected. "I'm afraid your 'alternative solutions' may come a little late for the monsters that inhabit this area. The monster hunters haven't shown much in the way of consideration for anyone that lives near these temples. We've already had to evacuate all the inhabitants of the forest near Olympus City."

"We are well aware," the kunoichi responded, her tone even as a shadow passed over her face, a flitting regret quickly subdued. "I have recently checked up on those who were relocated. As a matter of fact, I bring a missive as well from a concerned arachne who was hoping for word from the man she had claimed as a mate…"

Ceann glanced over at the knight, who absolutely refused to meet her gaze. "The mapmaker. We never should have sent them back into the city."

"I know." The knight tensed, his hand absently straying to the hilt of his sword. "I should have realized they never would have been allowed to go free, once they understood what was behind the lies the church had been telling them. They'll be imprisoned, at best."

Silence reigned over the trio for long moments, even the whistling wind pausing in mourning. Finally, the knight turned to look again to the kunoichi. "If you see her again, let her know as soon as we get any information on his fate… his well-being, rather, we will send word to her immediately. I will find out what happened to him." When the kunoichi nodded, he sighed, still ignoring the icy glare his partner was still directing his way. "And what of, ah, your 'other' master? How is he doing?"

"The Hero is doing well; my Mistress keeps him quite busy."

"I bet."

"Though he did ask me to pass you a message. He said," she coughed, her voice deepening as she mimicked another's tone, "'Tell my old friend that things will work out in the end. Vengeance is a poor quest to accept, because it has few rewards. Love is far better-'"

"He knows why I can't do that," the knight interrupted, his voice again sharpened. "I am glad he is doing well. I only hope that things go as well as he dreams, so he can continue to enjoy his own peaceful reward."

The kunoichi bowed slightly in response. "I will pass him your words. If you have no further need of me…" When neither of the others spoke, she swiftly drew a small globe from the sash at her waist and dashed it to the ground. The resulting explosion of smoke was quickly whisked away by the mountain winds, but as it cleared the woman was nowhere to be seen.

"I really, really want to know how they do that," Ceann murmured, glancing all around for the slightest hint of cover nearby that the kunoichi could have slipped behind.

"Thinking of leaving behind your family's traditions of knighthood for the shinobi arts?" the man asked teasingly, chuckling. "I wonder how you would look in one of their outfits."

"I…!" Ceann blushed incandescently, shaking her head rapidly to the point he was concerned it might fly off. "I would never!"

"Of course not, my Lady." Inclining his head in respect to her, he moved to return to the temple, his voice still carrying the smile he wore behind his helmet. "Though they do share your love for dramatic entrances…"

Harrumphing and crossing her arms, Ceann turned away from him. Her juvenile pique slipped away, however, as she noticed something in the near distance. Far below them, she could see signs of life: roads carved as faint lines on lower mountains, speck-people travelling back and forth, even the wisps of smoke climbing skyward from cooking fires. If the church did send its agents here, she knew, it wouldn't be only the wild monsters here that would suffer.

Dread weighing on her shoulders like second pauldrons, Ceann turned back to her tasks, hoping to find some way of hiding the existence of the temple from those who would seek it for evil purposes. As she left, she glanced back one final time at the thick black smoke rising from the town in the hills below.

For now, at least, the forgefires of Goslar continued to burn like the hopes of those who shared the town, ignorant of what may come to dowse both.

* * *

Roger left the road heading out of Goslar behind, instead following a dirt trail that was frequently concealed behind the tall grasses and untamed weeds that dominated the hillside below the elder forest near the town. It was a familiar path to him, though few others of the town would say the same; only those with business with the forest dwellers came this way, and their capriciousness was well-known enough to keep most away.

As the shadows of the forest began to seep towards him, shortened by the sun's arc yet dark even at the woods' edge, he kept his eyes more firmly on the ground before him. Though this forest was hardly the match of those he had heard of in stories, he knew people had a tendency to find themselves helplessly lost within its confines… especially men. Those didn't always come back out, though they often sent word to their friends not to come looking for them.

Roger had learned the signs that marked the way, and the forest complied with his unspoken hope that they wouldn't shift on him; here was the familiar patch of mushrooms, there the fallen log, and there, at last, was the closely-knit grove of trees that surrounded Rosa's Garden. It was hardly the best location for a business, but that didn't especially seem to bother the proprietor overmuch. After all, what need did an alraune have for wealth?

As Roger entered the ring of ancient trees, he was once again amazed by the variety of plant life that grew here. Though his own work often relied more on extracts than herbs themselves, he was familiar enough with sundry sources for his concoctions to know that the vast majority of the plants that grew here had no business flourishing in this place: either the climate was wrong, or the lighting, or the composition of the soil. Still they all grew in abundance, patches of plants teeming and spilling out organically, yet separated enough into their own cloisters to grant each bed an identity to itself, as if the flora here respected each other's desire for privacy and space.

Situated in a sunbeam that speared into the center of the grove, one plant in particular drew his gaze as its massive bulb began to open, petals pirouetting to part coquettishly, revealing a human-like form in place of the enormous flower's pistil. As the pale pink petals descended, the alraune was unveiled: she was a woman with vibrantly green skin with long hair the color of leafbottoms, said hair and a languidly-upturned petal all that served to preserve her modesty. Other than that, she was attired only in clinging vines that did less to conceal and more to draw the eyes in disastrous directions, an effect that the alraune no doubt intended, judging from the lustful mirth in her eyes as she noticed Roger conscientiously gazing away from her. The fragrance emanating from her bloom did little to help his self-control, however, and the lilac-tinted haze seeping into his brain suggested that he draw closer to the flower, closer to the warmth of the sun and the warmth of her skin, especially her abundant green-

"Ahem. I, ah, I'm here for the dark lavender plants I ordered a couple of weeks ago," Roger stammered, adamantly refusing to return his eyes to the rose-tipped wonders he had almost been ogling. The alraune's tinkling chuckle let him know she was well aware of his discomfort.

"Ah, Roger, it's good to see you again," she purred, leaning forward against the petal before her in a way that threatened to uncover her chest, bringing a crimson bloom to his cheeks. "I was almost afraid someone around here had managed to snatch you up. Picea the dryad has suggested she'd love to wrap her limbs around you, but her bark is worse than her bite." Pleased by her joke, she laughed out loud, covering her mouth as she did so. "Though, if you wanted to put down roots, I know just the bed for you…"

"I'm really sorry, Rosa, but I have to get those plants back to my shop if I'm going to fill my orders," the chemist insisted, still not looking her way as she rested her chin in her hands, smiling indolently at him.

"Of course, of course. We would hate to keep your piggy princess waiting, wouldn't we?" Rosa sighed in disappointment, her petals drooping sympathetically. "Really, I had always taken you as more of a vegetarian than someone who would prefer pork…"

Roger gave her a baleful look, his pride injured enough by her thorny banter to inoculate him against the way she mischievously swayed her hips as she met his gaze. "Pardon me, but I don't see how my eating habits have anything to do with this."

"Oh ho, but that's just it; it's painfully obvious you aren't really eating at all!" The alraune's haughty laughter rankled Roger, but it was obvious she was far from finished. "You just need something to… improve your appetite. You should tell little miss piggy I have plenty of alraune nectar that could help with that, and for a bargain: she would just have to loan me your labors for a little while. I could use strong hands like yours around here… I have a fertile bed in need of seeding, for one thing." As her eyes traced his body, Rosa's pink tongue parted her lips like a sprout emerging from dark soil.

Roger's blush returned, burning like a brushfire in dry weather. He wasn't entirely certain as to the meaning of her euphemisms, but his guesses were likely accurate, judging by the ironically carnivorous way she was examining him. "Really, I just need those dark lavender plants…" He jumped as he felt a vine brush against his leg, curling against his upper thigh, and stepped away, just within range of another vine angling in from the opposite side.

"Of course, of course; business before pleasure. Or during, if you would like?" Rosa giggled, but Roger was relieved to see another tendril unfurling from a nearby branch, extending towards him a bundle of lavender stems bound together with a withered vine. As the bushel of fresh herbs came closer, Roger quickly appraised it, pleased to see the deep purple color of the blooms tended to be streaked with livid blues. These were just what he had wanted, exactly as he had described to Rosa.

"They're perfect," he assured her, gazing intently at the flowers. This was just what he needed to complete his project.

"I'm sure you know this," Rosa stated offhandedly, casually inspecting the pale green nails on one of her hands, "but dark lavender is very different from the normal variety. The demon magic that altered them intensified the soporific effect they have more than typical lavender, but it tends to be… unpleasant on the stomach. I'm certain you know better than to mix a sedative from a fast-acting laxative."

"Yeah, I'm not making that mistake again," Roger said, shivering. "No, you're right, which is why I'm not using this for teas or anything similar." He reached into his pocket, pulling forth one of the diffusers he had bought from Mari. "However, if rendered into an extract and properly diluted into a water vapor, dark lavender can produce a soporific mist that could help anyone sleep, without those nasty side effects. These devices will do just that!"

Rosa's eyes sparkled with genuine appreciation as she listened to his words, and the vine that had been stroking his lower back paused for just a moment. "Marvelous!"

"Thanks," Roger grinned abashedly. "Actually, it was your pollen that gave me the idea, I have to admit."

"Well, then," Rosa said, holding one hand to her chest, "I am flattered. I am so glad that my plants can serve you so well." Long ago, just after they had met, Roger had asked Rosa if she had felt any compunctions about selling her plants for use in his tonics, considering her closer relationship to the fruits of her labor, but she had assured him that plants held a very different perspective on things. To them, she had stated, sacrifice was an inevitability of existence: part of a plant may be consumed by wandering grazers, but serve to spread seeds or fertilize the earth for its offspring. So long as the plant survived and produced progeny, it could ask for no more. Her emphasis had been on 'progeny,' and her gaze at him had been decidedly passionate.

Now, though, he knew that his efforts might increase the demand for dark lavender, and that would see it spread further throughout the land; a fair bargain, from the plant's perspective, he supposed. "Well, thanks, Rosa. I brought the fertilizer you asked for from my shop, along with the remaining payment in this pouch." He pulled a small bag from his waistband, and a vine reached to take it, as well as the small sack he held in the other hand.

"Of course, of course. Remember, I am always open to… alternative means of payment-"

"I really, really need to be getting back to my shop-"

"Could use some tender hands to help with the pruning and shaping-"

"And have a good day, and I will be back to see you later about-"  
Rosa sighed in surrender, even as her trailing vines grasped gently at Roger's retreating figure. "Very well. I will be here, when you need me." She smiled suggestively at him one final time as her petals began to close once more. "Feel free to bring your orc with you next time, to introduce us. I bet she would appreciate my help with… persuasive techniques."

As the bud sealed itself around Rosa, a lingering luring scent wafted past his nose once more, and Roger swallowed loudly, his face wooden as he stood stiffly, uncomfortably holding his hands directly in front of him as images danced in his mind. He would imagine that last suggestion vividly, whether he wanted to or not. He resolved never, ever to do that, even if he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Until a vine smacked smartly against his backside, and he jumped, quickly returning to the path that led back to Goslar, and safety.

* * *

"It seems you have quite the few female admirers, my friend."

Roger grumbled around his food, rolling his eyes. "You're one to talk."

Mithal Tirel chuckled, a pleasant sound almost consumed in the general hubbub of the crowded tavern. The man, young for his culinary talent and rarely spotted outside his kitchen sanctuary, leaned against his friend's table, watching the chemist as he devoured his meal. His grin was as much about his friend's appetite as the troubles Roger had shared with him; he had always appreciated watching someone enjoy his food, especially someone with tastes more refined than the typical protein-starved miner.

"I suppose," the chef admitted. "A few of my customers have offered me compliments on… things aside from my cooking." A faint blush stole onto Mithal's thin, pale cheeks. "But mostly that can be avoided by focusing on my art."

"Of course," Roger agreed, taking a deep swig from the flagon beside his wooden plate. "But I see you've hired a new goblin tavern maid, eh?" He motioned with the cup to a blonde-haired goblin girl who was haphazardly balancing an assortment of cups and bowls as she staggered towards tables as tall as herself.

"Meri Meadspiller; aptly named, tragically, but earnest. She is particularly eager to prove herself here," Mithal admitted, blushing slightly as the goblin saw him watching and offered him a toothy smile.

"Particularly eager to please, more like," Roger insinuated, nudging his friend hard enough that Mithal grunted his displeasure, reaching up to adjust his white cap to cover his sweat-drenched blonde hair. "And how about another goblin, hmm? Mari asked me to pass along her good wishes."

"Ah, yes, the potter," Mithal said, faintly smiling despite himself. It hadn't been long after he had arrived to serve as a cook in this once-run-down tavern that Mari had started visiting, first for the food and then for the company, with all of her sisters in tow. Declaring him her inspiration, Mari had even presented him with a clay 'likeness' of himself, albeit considerably more heroically proportioned with tighter-fitting clothing, that he had graciously accepted and then promptly concealed in a storage cellar under two sheets and behind a stack of empty produce crates.

"She's pretty curious about you, you know," Roger teased his friend. "Sounds serious. Watch out, or you're going to have a half-sized bride before the year is out. Or, like, five of them."

"Keep that up and next time you come you'll get the rock soup," Mithal responded, his smile baring his gleaming white teeth in a flat line.

"Oh, please, anything but that!" Roger replied, his horror only mostly feigned. Truth be told, he had come to deeply appreciate Mithal's cooking; it was definitely out of place in this mining village, but it was a taste of home for an expatriate like Roger. His current dish, freshly-caught fish in a cream-based sauce garnished with local herbs, was common enough in the city that Mithal had been born from, and had even been prepared by Roger's family's chefs when he had grown up. Here in Goslar, however, "poisson a la crème" went over poorly compared to, in Mithal's phrasing, "boar, cooking optional, hair removal optional, portioning also optional." There was no accounting for taste, apparently.

"Another ale, sir?" suggesting a sugar-coated voice from Roger's elbow, and he nodded down to the blonde-haired goblin with a smile a la crème before he thought to wipe his face. "Anything to serve a friend of Chef Mithal," Meri said with a saccharine smile, and Roger returned it with deviousness in his eyes.

"You know, Mithal, I think someone like her is just what your dream restaurant needs: a cheerful face to brighten the customer's day," Roger commented generously, and the smile Meri offered him in return showed him he was likely successful in once again selling out his friend, this time for what would probably be surreptitious free refills on his ale for the next few visits.

Mithal regarded him with an even stare, fully cognizant of what his pal was doing, mostly through experience. "Of course. Although, I believe the dwarven miners at table six are looking a tad dry…"

"On it, boss!"

Mithal sighed as she departed, aware that the exaggerated rolling of her diminutive hips was intended for his benefit. "You are rather quick to shift the focus onto someone else, aren't you, Roger? Tired of pork jokes for the day, and decide to have someone else suffer?"

"I figure, hey, dinner and entertainment at a bargain," Roger suggested glibly. "The fish was superb, as always, though. Just perfectly moist."

"A simple enough recipe. I could teach it to you, since you are cooking for two these days…" There was a lilt to Mithal's voice, revealing his jest, but Roger nodded, considering the offer. He had already availed himself of Mithal's culinary advice several times when it came to preparing dinner for himself and Priscilla. Idly, he wondered if his new roommate enjoyed fish, before standing from the table and clapping his friend on the shoulder.

"I'll take you up on it, I think. But later; I really do need to return to the shop." He drew a few coins from his pouch, pressing them into Mithal's hand. "And I'm sure they'll set the kitchen and all of the ingredients on fire soon if you don't get back in there."

"And no one would even bother to complain about the taste," Mithal huffed, but his eye fell to the glittering in his palm. "Ah, you overpaid again-"

"Consider it an investment in your dream restaurant!" Roger called back, already headed for the door. "And a tip for the very best service!" He winked at Meri, who thrust her chest out proudly, hands on her hips, as she beamed at Mithal. As he closed the door leading out from the tavern, Roger saw his friend muss the hair on Meri's head as he walked by, returning to his sacred kitchen.

As Roger set out onto the streets of Goslar once more, his belly pleasantly heavier, he found himself wondering if Priscilla would be waiting for him when he returned to the shop. Shaking his head to dispel the thought, he hurried on his path, grinning despite himself.

* * *

"I just don't get him."

This declaration was punctuated by the ringing crash of a pewter tankard slamming down in front of Priscilla, frothy ale surging up the side of the cup to crest over its edge, flowing down to darken the wooden worktable she sat at. She paid no mind to the spill, instead lost in her own complaints, which were offered loudly enough to be heard over the ringing of forgehammers from the interior of the smithy she sat outside. Her companions were close enough that they hardly had any trouble hearing her; instead, her volume was largely driven by the intensity of her frustration, along with the surprising potency of the ale she was imbibing.

"I mean, it was supposed to be so simple. I didn't have a clan any more to worry about. I had a cave all to myself. If I had just gotten a male, then I would even be doing better than Berala and her flunkies." Priscilla took another deep gulp from the tankard, the taste in her mouth soured by uttering the name of her former leader. "And then, nooo. He just had to be so… so… nice!"

Her drinking companion chuckled at her as she lifted her own, smaller container, a shallow bowl full of clear liquid with a sharp odor that stung the nose of any who passed by her. Draining it dry, she quickly refilled it from a huge jug she wore strapped to her back. "That's never stopped us ogres," she proclaimed, jerking a thumb back towards her own mostly-bared green chest. "Them being nice just makes it easier to grab them. Not that I need a man, mind you." She patted the side of her wine jug, which was the size of a child nearing adolescence. "This is all the boyfriend I need!"

Her cawing laughter caused the last member of the group to roll her eye, a gesture accentuated by the fact that she was a cyclops. Mutely shaking her head, she continued to rhythmically tap at the glowing piece of metal clamped in front of her, creating a basket hilt to complete the crossguard she was finishing. All around her were swords and axes in various stages of completion, a visible laundry list of tasks awaiting a master's attention, but such was typical at Bronda's Bladeworks, one of the more popular metalworking shops in Goslar. Inside the main body of the shop, apprentices and journeymen added their own hammerchimes to the cacophony, but Bronda's finishing touch was conducted at a small workspace just outside the primary building. She kept only a small forge and a few workbenches there, such as the table her two friends had claimed for their drinking. Bronda's mug sat unattended beside her, nearly full even though she rarely took the time to walk over to the ale keg the ogre had brought with her.

"I thought that, but…" Priscilla paused, her thoughts wading through the alcohol she had consumed over the past hour. "But he's so nice! I don't want to…"

"Hurt him?"

"Yeah!" Priscilla nodded furiously at the ogre, who gave her a skeptical look. "You get it, Kana!"

The ogre snorted, sending sake waves crashing against the low lip of her sakazuki. "No, can't say that I do. I've always heard you orcs were all about the three Fs: Fighting, fucking, or fawning. Doesn't sound like you're doing much of any of those these days."

Priscilla didn't respond for a long moment, staring at her wavering reflection in the shadows of her mug. "I know, but… I don't know what to do. He's been so good to me that I don't want to hurt him. He could have left me up there to starve. He's fed me, and given me a place to sleep, even bought me clothes." She glanced down at the tunic she was wearing. She had been forced to make alterations to the garment, of course, and had been deeply confused at his reaction when she had started removing the unnecessary parts of it, but she had taken very good care of it after that. "I don't want to hurt him, but… he's not stronger than me. I've always been told that weaker men are to be conquered, stronger men are to be obeyed. That's the orc way! But…"

"We're talking about that chemist, right? The one with the long black hair hanging in his eyes, sort of skinny, wears loose clothing all the time?" Kana followed her question with a loud sip of her alcohol.

Priscilla nodded with a blush, still peering into the depths of her cup. "Yeah." The wistfulness of the word implied she had a fair higher appraisal of the man than the ogre had.

"Well, he looks weak to me. I say jump him."

"Kana!" rumbled the third member of their group from her place at the forge. Bronda glowered over at the ogre, her single eye narrowed as she continued to work the metal in front of her without a glance. "She is pouring her heart out here. Take her seriously."

"I am!" Kana shout back, downing her sake with an uppercut-lift of her bowl. "Everything would be a lot simpler for them both after that. No more worrying, just…" She tripped over her words, vaguely making an obscene motion that her drunkenness left lost in translation. "Jus' think of it as paying him back for everything, if that makes it easier."

"I've thought about that, but… I get nervous when I try anything," Priscilla muttered, slumped in her seat. "What if he doesn't like it, and makes me leave? I would be fine outside the city, but not being able to be with him…" She shivered despite the midday heat, rubbing her bared arms.

"That's really pathetic," Kana stated bluntly, tilting her bowl up again and frowning up at it when it refused to produce any further liquor, her eyes focusing less and less as the amount she had already consumed began to wreak its mental havoc.

"Don't listen to her," Bronda consoled the orc. She hesitated, setting down the nearly-finished hilt she had been working on. "You're not the only one struggling with their love life, you know. I've tried to find someone who doesn't mind a girl with…" She motioned to her face, and Priscilla blinked for a long moment at her, finally realizing that the cyclops was pointing at her single eye. Priscilla had long ago grown accustomed to that feature, and had always considered Bronda to be very pretty, if a bit on the large and muscular side, though not nearly as much as Kana. "It's really hard to find someone single around here like that, and it's starting to get to me." She faltered, hesitating to confide what was on her mind, then finally caving to the undeniable need to confess to someone. "It's even starting to affect my work. A few nights ago, I was working on a personal project to blow off some steam, but I couldn't get my mind in the right place, and…" Sighing in shame, she motioned towards a sword, wrapped tightly in thick cloth, atop a nearby worktable. She said nothing further as Priscilla unsteadily walked over to it, drawing it by the hilt and beginning to unwrap it. As the cloth fell away, Priscilla found that it was an unfinished blade attached to a rough hilt, clearly not a finished product; it was little more than an unblunted bar of metal at this point, though the tip had seen the first attentions of Bronda's hammer. It was that end that drew Priscilla's attention as the shape slowly began to make sense to her: a flared, bulbous tip, with a notch at the apex, irrefutably anatomical in design.

"Ha! It's a, a thing! It's a dick sword!" Kana guffawed, leaning so back in her seat that gravity nearly wrenched her to the ground. Her laughter was so cacophonous, especially when Priscilla joined in, that people from the streets near the shop tried to peer in to see what was the matter, as did a handful of apprentices from within the smithy. Throughout the torment, Bronda said not a word, her cheeks blazing like molten metal. "You should- hah, ah- you should make more of those to sell! You could call it the Penetrator!" Now even Priscilla collapsed back against the table she had shared with Kana, clutching her sides as they ached from her own laughter.

It took entirely too long, by Bronda's reckoning, for her friends to regain control of themselves. Every time they glanced at the blade laying on the table between them, their mirth flared up once more, until finally Priscilla finally draped the cloth over the obscene metal. As the orc and ogre fought to regain their breath and composure, Bronda sat mutely, intensely regretting sharing her own troubles. Finally she noticed a small form standing just inside the main shop, hesitantly waiting for a chance to speak to the store's master.

"Come on, Muri. Girls," Bronda called out sternly, hoping in vain that a newcomer might prompt her friends to recover their calm. "This is Muri Metalbanger. She's one of the new apprentices here. She's just been doing small things recently, like kettles, but-"

"Metalbanger? Hoo boy! Your boss has just the thing for you!" Kana crowed, and Bronda picked up a small ball-peen hammer, clearly calculating the proper arc she would need to fling it at to reach the ogre.

"Muri, I've heard of you," Priscilla jumped in, hoping to forestall violence as Kana continued to laugh. "Your sister runs the pottery shop nearby, right?"

"That's right!" the orange-haired goblin girl piped up, grinning broadly. "My sis might already have her own shop, but I'm learning from a master!"

Kana started to respond, but the heat of Bronda's glare finally burnt through the haze of the ogre's drunkenness, so she reached for her colossal wine jug to remedy that issue by becoming even more intoxicated. Forgoing the use of her sake bowl, she instead turned the entire wine jug skyward effortlessly, even though it was easily the size of the goblin girl. Her throat worked audibly as streams of clear wine flowed down the sides of her mouth, running like spring thaw flowing down the cliffs of her chin and neck to the expansive foothills of her chest.

"Oh, yeah, sorry to interrupt boss, but I wanted your advice on the last project you gave me. I think I've gotten the shape mostly right, but I need some work on the balancing. Do you care to help me with this weathercock?"

Priscilla's aborted chuckle died in her chest as she saw the panicked look on Bronda's face, but Kana's reaction was far more delayed, and dramatic. Her sprayed plume of liquor flew far enough to cause Bronda's small forge to flare to greater life, and her laughter flew even farther. "You came to the right person!" Kana bellowed, her green cheeks darkened as she unsteadily pointed at Bronda, who was clearly not so amused. "She could really put the… the…" Kana paused, wobbling, as she seemed to study the table in front of her. The wine jug bounced hollowly on the floor as Kana's horns traced circles in the air, until she slumped forward with an idiot's smile plastered on her face. In just a moment, tectonic snores began to emanate from the fallen ogre.

"Anyways," Muri said, eyeing the downed ogre with faint curiosity, "I'll just wait inside for whenever you get the chance. Thanks, boss."

"I'll be right in there," Bronda responded, shaking her head as she met Priscilla's gaze. As the goblin returned to the shop's interior, Priscilla removed the phallic blade's cloth covering and instead draped it over the slumbering ogre's shoulders. "Anyways, Priss, didn't you say your boyfriend was going to be back at his shop after lunch? It's nearly noon, and you said you wanted to be there to greet him when he came back."

Her head swimming pleasantly, Priscilla nodded. "Yeah, I wanted to make sure he got back okay. I've heard that alraune in the forest can get a little clingy, y'know?" The orc shook her head, an ember of jealousy burning in her stomach. "I don't want anyone else to get him, because I know he's worth fighting for." She blearily looked up at the cyclops, who offered her a gentle smile in return. "Thanks for hearing me out, and taking me seriously, Bronda."

"Anytime, Priss. I'm always here for you. Although, if he has a brother, you could keep me in mind…"

Both girls laughed at that, and Priscilla felt a warmth within her that had little to do with the ale coursing through her veins. She had been profoundly lucky to run into Bronda shortly after she had first been able to explore Goslar. She had met the cyclops in the past, and Bronda had recalled her from that meeting, which had started a conversation that had led to their current friendship. Kana had also been a friend of Bronda's, and had quickly accepted Priscilla as a friend as well, especially when she learned she had a greater alcohol tolerance than Bronda, although a far shade of the ogre's own.

It was surprising to Priscilla that her relationship with Bronda had developed as it had. After all, their first meeting had been far less comfortable: Bronda had been travelling the mountain roads with a shipment of tools for a nearby town, and Priscilla had been in the party of orcs that had ambushed her. When Bronda took up some of the weapons she had been hauling, prepared to defend herself and her shipment, it had been Priscilla that had suggested that they leave her alone, and instead, as thunder rumbled over the mountains, pleaded with her leader to offer her shelter for the evening. She had known a worthy opponent at the sight of her, and even amongst the bandit tribes the craftsmanship of the cyclops was respected; Priscilla had known that, even if they managed to overwhelm the smith, her fellow orcs would pay a steep price. The high orc leading their clan had, for once, agreed, and so Bronda had spent several days with them, even giving the high orc a valuable weapon she had forged herself as thanks for their hospitality.

And now, Berala Blackaxe was sitting on a pile of loot in their lair, and her former lieutenant was getting drunk in Bronda's shop. But, at least, she had a man. Sort of.

"Yeah, I should be getting back now," Priscilla slurred, hazily noticing a dull commotion outside the shop. She paid far more attention when Muri ran back into Bronda's workspace, her eyes wide.

"Boss, boss! There's trouble in the town square!" Muri jabbed a thumb behind her, her speech incredibly rapid. "Some people said they saw a fight about to break out!"

"Not really anything new around here-" Bronda started, calmingly.

Muri wasn't to be reassured. "No, boss, it's those knights! The Holy Whatsits! A whole bunch of them are ganging up on a couple of girls, and they've got tons of weapons. This could be bad!"

Bronda blinked, considering what to do with this information, but a low chuckling from behind her drew her attention away from the panicked goblin. She turned to find Priscilla sitting upright, a dangerous gleam in her eyes and a feral grin on her face. "Priss, what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking a fight is just what I need to get my mind off of everything else!" Priscilla stood suddenly, her seat tipping over to crash against the ground. She reached over to grab the hilt of a nearby sword. "I'll be borrowing this, Bronda, but I'll be right back!"

Before the cyclops could say another word, the orc dashed for a low wall adjoining the road, and vaulted over it, her landing favoring her injured leg despite her drunken numbness. She sprint-hobbled down the road, unfortunately correctly headed in the direction of the town square. Bronda sighed deeply, glancing to the slumbering ogre before turning back to the goblin before her. "Muri, I need you to do me a favor. Do you know the way to the chemist's shop near here?"

Priscilla ran down the road, her pace set to the drumbeat of excitement pounding in her skull. At long last, a good fight; just what she needed to forget her problems and burn off her anxiety. Gripping the hilt of her borrowed weapon, she ran onwards, the milling crowd coming into sight as she neared her destination.

She didn't stop until she burst out of the crowd, alone and directly in front of the six armored knights standing with weapons drawn.

 **Author's Note:** Two chapters down, probably 6ish left for this particular tale. The next story is already in the works, though I am a ways yet from actually doing much more than scene plotting and occasional foreshadowing. I will admit, I am writing way ahead of my posting here... I am pretty sure I will finish chapter 4 tonight, and start on chapter 5 tomorrow. I am _loving_ my new class schedule at work. The impending basketball season may hinder my progress, however, once it arrives; after all, those thrice-damned hot dogs won't sell themselves.

Anyways, thank you all for reading my ramblings, and I hope you have enjoyed the story so far. If I may be forgiven my hubris, allow me to humbly ask for feedback; a writer without responses is a navigator without compass or a North Star (though I do direct my thanks to Mr. Uzimaki for his kindness). Considering the rather salacious content of this universe, I'm running without any input from my usual editors...

Finally, of course, thank you all for reading. I shall sleep now...

~Wynn P.


	3. Gleaming Gold

The trouble had started with honey.

Belinda's Golden Nectar was a well-travelled roadside shop favored by many of the monstrous inhabitants of Goslar. Born of a hive of bee women that dwelled within the outskirts of the elder forest, Belinda had developed an entrepreneurial spirit that was rare for her kind. She had, at great pains and eventually with the aid of a keg of dwarven-brewed ale, convinced her queen of the advantages of selling their leftover honey. At first, it had been an effort to deter the grizzlies that had frequently raided their stores, reducing the temptation for the monstrous ursine gluttons by removing their excess product. Later, though, it had enabled the honey bees to enjoy the fruits of currency, including the ability to hire on human laborers to construct a more elaborate hive, which had included lavish bedrooms for enjoying the further labors of those same workers.

The wealth that had flowed into their hive like the viscous nectar that flowed out of it had been a surprise to Belinda, who had been warned of the difficulties a starting merchant would face. Instead, however, the honey she had brought into Goslar on her first visit disappeared almost immediately, leaving her with a pile of money and enflamed ambition. Word spread throughout the town of the deliciousness of the gooey fluid, along with unusually-correct rumors of its aphrodisiacal effects on both monsters and men. When Belinda next returned to town, encumbered with double the amount of jars of her hive's finest, she found a crowd awaiting her at the empty lot she had claimed on the streetside, and within an hour her stock was gone, destined for the bellies of enthusiastic monsters and their mates, with perhaps a few sensuous stops along the way.

Now, matters had changed a great deal for the once-threadbare store. In place of the rough patch of earth where once Belinda had squatted with a few jars of honey stood an elaborate booth, protected from inclement weather by heavy cloth and with crude glass windows that displayed the day's delicacies. The hive had taken to the challenge of production with decidedly bee-like determination, while the atypical Belinda had encouraged them to develop new recipes, seasoned with different pollens and plants, even going so far as to make deals with distant alraunes for a variety of nectars, the fluid that formed the base element of the honey the bees made and which gave it its licentious side effects. The newest batch, crafted from liliraune nectar flown in from a sister forest of the one outside Goslar, had been an absolute hit, and demand had been staggering.

That was why, by noon of that day, Belinda found only a single jar of her basic honey left in her stores. Hefting it onto the counter, she waited for the day's last customer, idly chatting with familiar faces to pass the time. She didn't have long to wait.

Fresh from a shift in the mines, her simian muscles aching from swinging a pickaxe for hours, a kakuen miner made a beeline for the honey shop. She had just gotten paid, and well-remembered the result of her last purchase, when weeks previously she had spent a great deal to buy a jar of Belinda's best. She had taken it straight home and offered it to share it with her boyfriend, who had cautiously accepted. Afterwards, she had been too sore and exhausted to make it to work the next day, as had her boyfriend, and instead they spent the day trying to clean their shared room from all of the goo that had somehow made it all the way to the ceiling in their fervent savoring of the honey and its effects. It had likewise taken several baths to remove all of the sticky honey from their respective and varied hair, though that too had been rather enjoyable for them.

Her heart flew into her throat when she saw a single jar awaiting her on Belinda's counter. Her heart then crashed stomachward as someone intruded in her field of vision: a feline shopper crying out with delight at discovering the single remaining jar of honey. The monkeygirl miner watched in despair as the werecat inquired about the price, and then reached for her waist… only to discover that her moneypouch was absent. The feline woman looked about in a panic, but quickly sighed in relief when she spotted the wayward wallet at the next stall over, which she had previously been perusing. Stepping back in that direction to retrieve it, the werecat snatched it and turned back towards Belinda's booth, only to find the jar of honey firmly clasped in the hands of a beamingly-triumphant kakuen.

"Pardon me," the werecat purred dangerously, "but I was in the process of purchasing that."

"Not anymore," the monkey proclaimed, her grin reaching for her earlobes. "It was unattended when I got here."

"Actually, she-" Belinda began, utterly ignored by both women.

"I left for but just a moment."

"I never saw you at all."

"Well, I had already claimed that, so-"

"Guess not, considering I'm the one holding it." The monkeygirl grinned ferociously at her opponent, certain she had the upper hand.

"Well, neither of you have paid for it, so…" Belinda flinched back as two fists were thrust her way, coins threatening to spill from both.

"Sorry, but the man I have been trying to court has had a sore throat recently, and I wanted some honey to help soothe it," lied the werecat piteously.

"Yeah, that's sad. But I need this for my sick aunt."

"My mother is also sick-"

"Both of my grandmas are sick."

The two cutthroat customers glowered at each other, realizing their previous tactics would not work. The catwoman's paws shot out, clasping the jar, and the kakuen's eyes opened wide in outrage. "Unhand it and go suck on a banana, fleapicker," snarled the feline contestant.

"Maybe later, you hairgagging harlot," grunted her simian opponent.

The pair pirouetted in their wrestling over the jar, snarling insults, as their fight drew them further from Belinda's stall and into the main causeway, though cart traffic was thankfully light so close to lunch. The werecat was so focused on her struggles with the more muscular monkeygirl that she didn't pay attention to her footing, stepping unevenly on a loosened stone and succumbing to the pain erupting from her wrenched ankle. She tumbled back, slamming into a heavier form as she lost her grip on the honey jar. It happened so suddenly she didn't even get to enjoy the fact that the kakuen also released the jar, though the shattering of glass would have stolen any sense of victory from her.

When the werecat opened her eyes, wincing at the pain from her ankle, the first thing she noticed were the broad shoulders of the person she had collided with as she had collapsed. "Why, hello…" she began, noting the defined muscles of the arm propping the figure up, but her lusty tone died as soon as it was conceived as she immediately felt a wrongness about the masculine figure before her. Her horror grew as she noted, underneath the spreading glob of splattered honey, the blinding whiteness of the tabard the man wore, as well as the gold-darkened symbol it bore: a sword superimposed on a flame. It was the symbol of the Holy Order of the Purifiers, or, as they were known in tavern whispers and curses, the monster hunters.

"Stupid bitch," the knight snarled, reaching down to smear off the once-precious honey and sling it into the dirt below him with a scornful flick of his hand. "You mongrels aren't happy enough tainting this town with your presence; now you have to literally stain me with this filth?" He snarled at the trio of monster women in front of him, fighting to regain his footing.

The three, and all of the other townspeople watching, paled. The reputation of the Purifiers was well-discussed. The Church of the Holy Martyr had agreed to do business with Goslar, hungry for its ores for its burgeoning military, but neither side were entirely pleased by the arrangement. More than once, Goslar's mayor, a minotaur and former miner named Tara Rockhorn, had nearly come to blows with the church's representatives. Every time knights were sent to guard shipments of metal and weapons, they forbiddingly kept their own company, sneering openly at the thought of having to spend any time in the presence of monsters.

That was why this accident sent cold terror trickling down the spine of the supine feline; she knew that she would be hard pressed to escape this situation without things getting out of hand. "I'm so sorry," she stammered, trying to reach out to wipe honey off the man's clothing, only to watch him flinch away as if contact with her would defile him more than the nectar. "I swear, I will pay to have it washed-"

"Sorry doesn't fix this, now does it?" the knight snarled. He reached to his belt, drawing forth a short-handled cudgel and raising it behind his head.

He froze as he felt the hand gripping his wrist. "I won't let you do that," said the kakuen solidly, her gaze resolute despite her earlier conflict with the woman she had just saved from a bruising assault. She stared directly into the man's eyes, daring him to test her, his muscles bulging as he struggled to move his arm from her grasp.

She was so focused on their contest that she didn't hear the whisper of steel on tooled leather, didn't notice the other knight until the agonizingly-sharp blade rested at the base of her throat. She swallowed, and the swelling of her throat pressed her skin against the edge enough for a thin red line to appear, crimson swelling to a bead that trickled downward. "Let him go, apeface," chuckled the knight beside her darkly. She glanced at him, barely noticing his youthful mien, or the hair he wore pulled back aside from a single lock that dangled before his right eye; instead, she saw only the manic smile he bore, teeth bared in a predator's grin. She didn't nod, fearful of opening her own throat with any movement, and instead released the honey-stained knight and stepped backwards.

The blade pursued, sticking to her throat as if glued there, even as the man holding it rotated to face the kakuen directly. His smile wavered as little as his sword, and he stared into the fearful eyes of the monsterwoman as she noticed the other four knights spreading out to surround her and the downed werecat. Knowing that six armed men against them was hardly fair, she looked further, meeting the eyes of gawking townspeople on the streets nearby. She saw the same fear there that she felt, but no one made a move to rescue her and the other woman, and she began to despair at getting out of this situation unharmed.

"Well, well. Open assault in the midday," taunted the man holding her at sword's edge. "You monsters just don't give a damn about how we do things in the civilized world, do you? If you wanted to fight us, you only had to ask." The other men nodded, and she shrank back further from the crowd looming over her. "Now, should we take care of this here, or arrest them and take them back with us?"

The kakuen held no illusions about the idea of arrest. If they were removed from the city, she and the werecat wouldn't live to see any other destination. Still, the weapons in their hands made it clear the men wouldn't see the matter ended without violence either way, and she closed her eyes, praying that someone would save her, someone would-

"Hey, assholes," interrupted a slurred voice from behind the knights. "Over here."

As the knights turned, the kakuen opened her eyes to discover that salvation came in the form of a visibly-intoxicated orc, who stood swaying just in front of the crowd that had gathered to watch the impending conflict. The face below her light brown hair was flushed deep pink, and her green eyes were glassy. The orc held a sword, albeit awkwardly, the blade almost reaching the ground and partially hidden behind her leg. The monstergirls were just as surprised at the orc's sudden appearance as the knights, unified in gaping, and the orc scowled at their silence. "You want someone to fight?" she challenged, snorting. "Bring it on."

The knight that was still holding the sword at the kakuen's throat glanced to his comrades for a moment in disbelief, before finally removing the sword from the monkeygirl's throat. She breathed in audibly, finally feeling free to by the sword's removal, but her breath caught as the blade pivoted to point at the orc. "Are you seriously challenging us?" the knight demanded, genuinely surprised at a conflict that he and his fellows hadn't had to manufacture. "You realize you're going to die, right?" His eyes scanned over her, not a hint of lust within their depths, and he smiled as he noticed the torn, unarmored tunic she wore, and the bandages wrapped around one of her legs. "And you'll die quickly."

"Talk less, tin can," the orc responded, pleased at her own wit.

At this, his smile falling into a confident grin, the knight shifted his stance. He led with his right foot, snapping his sword in a tight circle, in a fencer's form, revealing his dueling experience. He watched the orc as she hunched forward, holding her sword clumsily in front of her, the tip wobbling and dancing in the air. It took him just a moment to realize how much he outmatched his opponent, and he started his lunge, only to pull up short as he watched the edge of her sword, his brain finally making sense of its unusual shape. "Are you mocking me?" he demanded, face reddening apoplectically. "That sword is shaped like a-"

Her swing was clumsy, a horizontal clubbing aimed at his head at eye-level. He parried instinctually, mentally lost to his rage, but he was scarcely prepared for the weight she had accidentally put into the attack, her balance lost in the movement. The dulled edge of her sword pushed past his guard, coming right for his head-

The knight tumbled to the dirt, knocked senseless by her blow. He had hardly landed when swelling began to discolor the side of his head, as thin trickles of blood ran down from the point of impact. The orc gaped down at him as he groaned, as did every other one of the spectators. It was obvious he would survive with little more than a crippling headache and hobbled pride, but still the shock of the fight's immediate ending rippled through the crowd.

The stillness ended when, as one, the remaining knights drew their weapons, and the orc found herself facing a rapidly-closing iron maiden of swords and cudgels as they encircled her. Danger finally breaking through her intoxicated overconfidence, she looked to start to flee, but a heavy step on the wrong leg brought her wincing down to one knee, and she desperately tried to point her sword at all five men at the same time, face reddened in outrage.

For the first time since she had arrived in Goslar, Priscilla regretted ever leaving the side of Berala and her gang.

* * *

When Roger returned to his shop, he wasn't surprised to see someone standing outside the door. He was accustomed to customers needing his services at all times of day, and knew the hours he had taken off today meant that several of his regulars would be impatiently expecting his arrival. While the town had several doctors living within its borders, a necessity considering the likelihood of injuries while mining or working metal, he was one of the only sources of more regular pharmaceuticals, along with the other chemicals he produced for various purposes, from home cleaning to machine lubricants.

His eyes widened, however, as he recognized the face of the monster woman standing at his door. She stood rigidly despite their familiarity, the practiced poise of an experienced warrior: the lizardman captain of the Company of the Forked Blade, Lacerta Steelscale. Even now, she wore reinforced leather armor and had a short sword strapped to either side of her, which was typical for her. Despite the weeks he had spent with her, both during the time his caravan had hired her band of mercenaries to protect them on the road from the barrier city to Goslar, and in the visits she had paid him since that first arrival here, he had never seen her truly at ease, though she seemed slightly more so while they were alone.

"Lacy!" he called out, grinning despite himself. She returned the greeting with a wry smile, still resisting his use of that nickname, since there was absolutely nothing frilly about her. Instead, she offered him a curt salute, its seriousness only moderated by her upturned lips.

"You look well," she stated bluntly, as was typical for her. "It seems life with your new roommate isn't treating you too poorly."

"Yeah, well, it's hard to sleep with her around." He paused in mid-step, immediately regretting his phrasing. "She snores. I mean, from across the room, separate beds. Really loud snoring, not-"

Lacerta's raised eyebrow was the only response she needed as words continued to pour from his mouth, and Roger led them both into his shop, flipping the sign over to 'Open' as he did so. She scanned over his store as she walked in, impressed with the progress he had made since she had first visited, shortly after he had purchased the empty house and converted its lower floors into his shop. He was settled in, had made a solid place for himself here in Goslar. That was not going to make her task any easier.

"So, Lacy, what brings you in?" he asked genially, having gone behind the counter and already busying himself with a mortar, pulling buds from a plant and bruising the flower petals with his pestle. She watched him for a moment, sniffing and even flicking her tongue out to taste the air.

"Is that lavender?" she asked, carefully avoiding his question.

"Dark lavender, specifically. Be careful not to get too much of a noseful of it; it will make you drowsy really quickly." Roger set his tools onto the counter before him next to the remainder of the plants and moved to rummage through a nearby cabinet. "It's for an invention a friend of mine has been working with me on, something that will really help out a lot of the people here."

"An invention?" She scrunched her nose up, frowning. "You're not working with that madman, Metius, are you?"

"Valerian is an old friend of mine, yes, and his inventions only occasionally explode," Roger replied defensively, his voice echoing from the cabinet as sounds of glass tinkling against glass rang out from it. "This one definitely won't." Laughing in triumph, he pulled his head out of the cabinet and held up several miniscule vials of a darkly-colored liquid.

As the lizardwoman watched, Roger pulled a couple of spherical objects from a box laid atop the counter between them, and twisted them with his thumbs. The upper halves flipped open, and Roger squinted as he began trying to insert the vials into the delicate machinery, removing and discarding the bits of cork that had sealed their tops. Lacerta drew closer, staring at the elaborate cores of the ball-shaped clay objects Roger was tinkering with. "What are those, again?"

"Watch!" Roger cried triumphantly, closing both of the orbs, the vials enshrined within. He carefully twisted the upper hemispheres, and they clicked closed. "You see, a lot of the night shift miners have difficulty sleeping during the daytime, and constantly come to me for teas to help them rest better. It would be a lot easier to give them something they could use at their leisure, instead of waiting for the tea to steep. Hence, these: dark lavender diffusers!" Roger beamed at her, immensely proud of his completed brainchildren.

"So… they're 'not' weapons?" Lacerta hazarded, eyeing the orbs cautiously.

"N-no! Here, watch." Roger delicately twisted one of the orbs further, and it clicked once more. "We even worked out variable flow control, though it could be a little powerful at higher levels. I might need to adjust the strongest setting down." For a long moment, the device did nothing, and Lacerta glanced back and forth between it and the expectant Roger. Finally, the device began to issue a faint whistle from the vents at its top.

"Oh, it sings them to sleep?"

"No, that's not right," Roger mumbled, inspecting it closely, but he jerked back as a puff of lavender mist suddenly burst from the top, continuing to emanate in a wafting stream. Roger held it out towards Lacerta, yet still safely away from her, and just from the faint whiff she caught she could see it was effective. Immediately her head began to swim, and her eyebrows to droop, as a restful feeling seeped into her muscles. Quickly, Roger twisted the orb back, and the flow of mist ceased.

"So, that's not a weapon?" Lacerta repeated, blinking rapidly and shaking her head to waken herself.

Roger grinned sheepishly at her demand. "I mean, no, not really. Maybe you could put someone to sleep with it temporarily, but I don't think it has enough potency to be fatal even to the smaller races." Lacerta frowned at him, disappointed that he didn't see the more practical applications such a device could have in warfare and stealth, but he ignored her, instead turning back to his flowers. "I had enough samples of dark lavender to make a couple diffusers' worth of extract, but the stuff I bought today will make a lot more. I need to run tests to see how long they last, so I can determine if they are really worth the investment, but I have high hopes, based on its potency." He paused, shaking his head slightly. "Sorry, I'm being rude. What brings you in today? Everything going well with the Forked Blade? Need more explosives?"

Lacerta grunted, waving her hand in front of her. "No, don't worry about it; I was the one who asked. Actually, there has been some news from further west that I wanted to ask you about. You have family back in the barriers, right?"

Both of them jumped as the door to the shop banged open, and a panting goblin stumbled into the room, panting loudly and nearly sinking to the floor. Lacerta's hands flew to the hilts of her swords, and she glanced at Roger, who was gaping at the goblin girl, recognition painted on his face. "You're… Mori? No, Muri, from the smithy?" The goblin looked up at him, nodding at the second name, her chest heaving in waves. "What's wrong?"

"Trouble!" the goblin managed between deep breaths. "Town… square. Knights… miss Priscilla!"

Roger's eyes flew open, and he looked to Lacerta with fear in his eyes. "That sounds bad. Will you help?"

She saw the plea in his gaze, and nodded. She had enough experience with the Holy Orders to know well what kind of trouble this could be. "Let's go."

Leaving the exhausted goblin to sink onto the floor of his store, Roger and Lacerta raced for the exit from his shop. The streets outside were mostly cleared, as the nearby inhabitants had likely already heard something of what was going on and had chosen either to keep themselves indoors, or had joined the swelling crowd they could see down the road. Even as they made their way towards it, Roger's lungs burning while Lacerta loped with swift strides, they could hear the angered hubbub from the throng, with furious shouts ringing off the walls of nearby buildings. Both the chemist and the lizardwoman sank into the crowd, surrounded by livid faces directed towards the center, and were able to push themselves to the front line of the heated crowd.

Roger's heart fell as he emerged into the open. In front of him, three knights held the crowd at bay, their weapons out and their faces daring any of the civilians to try to interfere. A fourth knight was struggling to rise from the ground, holding the side of his head with unfocused eyes. A strange sword lay on the ground near him, and by it were the final two knights who were raining kicks and punches down on a prone figure between them. That unfortunate soul was curled into a ball for protection, but the knights were persistent, and the force of their blows sounded dully from her body, along with cries of pain. Roger took a step forward senselessly when he recognized the voice, the pale pink skin, the torn tunic.

A hand on his shoulder held him for just a moment. "Roger," Lacerta cautioned, "this is bad. If you say to, I will go in, but…"

Roger stared back at her helplessly, his heart fracturing as he heard another pained whimper from Priscilla. He knew what Lacerta was offering him. She would fight, and die; there was no way she could kill all six, and even if she did, then it was impossible to know what would happen to her afterwards. One of the Holy Orders specialized in finding specific targets, and she would be a focus immediately. He could go in with her, but without any fighting experience, he would die too. He couldn't ask that of her, or of himself.

He was nodding anyways when the voice rang out across the crowd. "Enough!" bellowed a husky bull-legged woman stepping closer to the knights. Roger glanced at her, as did five of the knights, the last flinching and falling back as the volume pounded into his aching skull. She towered over most of the men and monsters in the area, with long curved horns and bared biceps that looked like skin over stone. Roger recognized her as Tara Rockhorn, the town's mayor and former head miner. Her years of swinging a pickaxe showed in the muscles that shifted under her tightened shirt, which stretched painfully over her broad shoulders as she crossed her arms before her. Behind her stood her husband, a man that seemed to have been chiseled from the mountains she had mined, with a chaotic coal-black mane and dense beard, mimicking her stance with a similarly-steely stare at the troublemaking ruffians.

"By the authority I've been granted as mayor, I demand you cease and desist immediately. Our town guard will handle any further disputes, by our laws and judging." She spoke with the heavy authority of someone used to being in the middle of conflicts, which were not uncommon in the multi-taverned mercantile mining town.

One of the knights stepped toward her. This was the eldest of the bunch, with armor that looked slightly more ornate, including small flourishes on his tabard. His chin jutted under his close-cropped grey beard, and he scowled openly at the minotaur. "Your 'laws?' Don't make me laugh." The severity of his expression suggested that was a rare occurrence. "My men were assaulted in the middle of your stinking streets, and you ask that we leave this matter to your 'laws.' This is our matter, under our jurisdiction as representatives of the Holy Church, and by the Law we follow we have the right to punish any monster who attacks our knights. If your men think to intervene, just remember that doing so will put you at war with our nation, and know you will have a fine chance to see what your 'law' looks like from the end of our pikes." As he barked his final words, spit flecking his facial hair, he turned and nodded to one of the knights who had been beating Priscilla. The other man returned the gesture, and his hand slipped to the mace he had strapped to his waist. The knight raised it over his shoulders, taking aim at Priscilla's head, as Tara bellowed in outraged impotence, as the crowd started to surge forward despite the blades bared at them.

"Damn you all," Roger snarled, as piercing whistling erupted from his white-knuckled fists. A dozen faces turned towards him just in time to witness him toss two clay balls into the middle of the circle of knights. The townspeople stopped, and the armed men stared at the shrieking orbs in confusion that caved into shock as thick plumes of deep purple mist began to volcano out of the devices. The knights fell back, coughing, confused, collapsing. In just a moment, all of them were on the ground, heads swimming too much to see the two forms dash past them with mouths covered with cloth, and by the time those two forms returned carrying a third between them, all six of the knights were in the deepest sleep of their lives.

Roger and Lacerta, and Priscilla unconscious between them, did not stop until they were safely back at his shop, despite the wooziness that drug at their heels.

* * *

When Roger came down the stairs to the main room of his store, he wore a tense expression on his face. That expression did not lighten when he noticed the contemplative scowl on Lacerta's face, and certainly could not improve when he noticed the hulking third person in the room: the ever-intimidating Tara Rockhorn. "So. How is she?" the mayor asked bluntly, her face in a frown that may have been habit, may have been the results of preceding events, though Roger could not tell which.

Roger wiped his hands clean with an old cloth as he sighed, blowing out his breath in a rush. "Well, she'll be okay, but she will hurt a lot for the next few days. I've cleaned her wounds and administered a topical anesthetic, but there's not much more I can do. I'll call for a doctor to check her again to be sure, but the best I can tell is that the worst is some deep bruises and a few gashes." He sighed once more. "Again."

"Well, a moment more, and we would have been wiping her brains off of the main street." Tara snorted, shaking her head. "Later, you and I need to speak about those weapons you used-"

"They're not weapons," Roger and Lacerta said, simultaneously.

"Whatever they are, I might buy a bunch of them." It was Tara's turn to sigh. "Listen, mister Miralis, we are taking care of the knights: I've ordered my people to load them onto a cart headed out of town, and to bind their weapons and place them at the bottom of the shipment they were supposed to be protecting. The guards have been warned to watch for them, and if they try to return, they'll be met with drawn bows and strong suggestions that we're all closed for business for the day. But I need you and your orc mate," Roger started to interrupt, but a steely glance made him hold his tongue, "to stay… indoors for a few days. Sounds like she could use the rest, and maybe a few words about how much she drinks before noon."

"You're one to talk, Tara," murmured Lacerta with friendly familiarity, and the minotaur fought down a smile.

"Just stay out of sight, for your own protection. We'll take care of the rest."

Roger met the mayor's eyes with an unwavering stare. "You know they won't let this end here. I grew up in a barrier city. I have family in the Orders. They're bastards that won't stop for anything but blood, and they won't stop then, either."

"And you think we don't already know that?" Tara shook her head, but her eyes were grave. "If it hadn't been this, it would have been something else. Lacerta, you know that too. That's why you came here, isn't it?"

Lacerta glanced away from Roger, not meeting his eyes. "Something like that."

"Anyways, I'm going to go see to the rest of this mess, make sure the two girls they were after are alright. Just stay quiet, and everything will be fine." No one in the room felt confident about her final words, but the lizardwoman and the chemist thanked the mayor and bade her farewell.

Silence reigned for a long moment after the door closed behind the minotaur. It was enough tension that even the morose mercenary began to fidget. "Listen, Roger-"

"It's about my family, isn't it?"

Lacerta met his eyes evenly. "No. I mean, yes, kind of." She sighed, struggling for words, having long surpassed her normal daily allowance for speech that wasn't bellowed orders. "Trouble is coming. She was right. This town… this whole area, is going to see rough times. You should consider going back."

"Going back?!" Roger all but shouted. "Do you know- I told you what it was like there. Either you went all in on the church, or you were an outsider. Either you were a noble son, or you were trash. Studies, work, life: it was all about a faith in something that I never really understood or believed in. It all felt like a lie to me. My oldest brothers always knew they would inherit the estate, so it was expected my other brother and I would join the Orders." He paused, smiling bitterly. "I always got along with Richard; he was smart like me, unlike the two thugs who were lucky enough to be born first. I guess he's doing just fine in the Orders, but… it wasn't for me. I could never be… that." He motioned vaguely towards the square they had just dragged Priscilla from. "I could never be like any of them."

Lacerta stared at him for a long moment. Roger had shared much of this with her already, when she had guarded the caravan that had carried him from that life. She hadn't seen this deep bitterness then, however. She had been wrong to suggest him returning to it.

"Sorry," she started. "I just didn't want you here when war comes to Goslar. I've seen enough to know how terrible it can be, and my connections say there isn't much that we can do to stop it." Her expression was flat, but her eyes were oddly compassionate. "I know what they tell you about us monsters, back there. I know what you believe about us. I've just seen who the real monsters are these days, and I don't want you to see that."

Roger's smile was soft. "Yeah, well, I'm a quick learner. Just a few weeks ago, I thought Priscilla was about to enslave me and beat me. Now, I know much better what she is actually like." As he turned back to put up the plants he had been working on when they had first arrived in the store, he missed the alarm in Lacerta's eyes.

"Actually, orcs are kind of-"

"And I know that the same is true of most of the monsters here."

Embarrassed for him, Lacerta covered her face with one hand, muffling her words. "Well, actually, there have been a lot of monsters I've talked to about you that really want to-"

"Now that I think about it," Roger blurted, lost in his own thoughts. "That gives me an idea." He whirled, facing Lacerta with a suddenness that made her jump imperceptibly. "Could I ask a favor of you?"

The vertical slits in her eyes widened, then narrowed. "Yes, of course."

"It's Priscilla." Roger laughed nervously, his voice getting louder as he let himself babble a bit. "She 'was' getting better, but even after this, she'll be fine in no time. She… she won't stay here forever. She will have to have something she can do, because she can't go back to…" He waved vaguely in the direction of the southern mountains. "To what she was when I met her. She wouldn't last long like that, alone. She needs something more, something that she can use to take care of herself, a skill."

Lacerta watched him closely, nodding. "You want me to train her as a mercenary," she hazarded, and he nodded, grateful the suggestion had come from her.

"If she could become a caravan guard, or part of the town watch, then she would be okay, no matter what happens," Roger elaborated, sinking a bit into himself. "Even if we all have to leave Goslar. Even if she decides she wants to leave for her own sake."

Lacerta stepped closer, her eyes scrutinizing his face, and her voice was low. "And that might just give her a way to stay near you, too." Roger didn't respond, but a blush infused his cheeks. Lacerta nodded, mostly to herself, and rested a hand on his shoulder. "I'll be with my company, just outside of town, in the northwestern fields. When she's well enough, send her to me, and I'll see what I can do, for as long as we're stationed here."

As she walked out, Roger called out to her, "Thanks, Lacy. I appreciate it more than you know." The lizardwoman paused at the door long enough to offer him an atypically-unguarded smile in response, and a silent nod. And then the door closed, leaving Roger alone with his fears and anxieties in silence.

* * *

The sound of the door closing traveled up the stairs and into the bedroom that Roger shared with Priscilla. At the sound, the orc on the bed shook her head, sighing in grief. She had messed up, badly, she knew. She had been struggling to stay conscious, wavering in and out of wakefulness, wrestling with the after-effects of her insobriety and that purple mist and the pain that screamed from a thousand difference places in her body like a discordant orchestra. She had to give it to those knights: they were remarkably thorough. Still, the pain their boots and fists had left her was nothing to the feeling in her chest, like her heart had plummeted into her stomach and been found agonizingly indigestible.

Priscilla hadn't heard much of the conversation from downstairs, but what she had heard had been enough. She had heard Roger talking to that lizard with a familiarity that made bitter jealousy curdle her stomach. She heard him speak of leaving. She had heard him talk of _her_ leaving.

She should have known it was coming, especially after the trouble she had just caused. She had already been near enough to recovery that she had wondered when Roger would finally decide to evict her from his life. She had nothing to give him for his kindness, for the bed he had go so far as to purchase for her, for the clothing he had bought her, for the food he prepared and shared with her every day. Anyone would tire of such a leech.

She had known it was coming, deep down, if she was honest with herself. That had been behind her desperation to get closer to him, had consumed her thoughts over the past days. She had been so worried about it that she had thought about forcing herself onto him, though that notion stemmed as much from her lust for him as from her desire to stay by his side. She wanted to be with him, wanted him to be her mate, though not entirely as she had originally intended.

Back in the days of the old Demon King, the orcs had been some of the fiercest enemies of humanity. They had been created with an innate craving for conquest, and a natural willingness to submit to those stronger than themselves; that had been how the Demon King had kept them in line, once he had unleashed them to despoil the works of man. The first spell of the new Demon Queen had changed everything, for all of the monsters: her Incantation of Divine Transformation had changed the once-asexual monsters from agents of destruction to fully female forms, capable of reproduction instead of being shaped by their lord's own hand. That left a certain hole in their natural course that could only be filled by the human men they had once hunted, though still their ancient instincts remained: oppress the weak, obey the strong. At the least, that had been how her tribe's elder had explained things to her, long before she and many of her sisters had broken off to join Berala's band.

And so her instincts had led her to find a man to conquer, and on that day on the mountain she had done just that. Had it not been for that rockslide, she would have forced Roger to come with her to the damp, shallow cave she had claimed as her home, and to serve her every need, with an emphasis on one need in particular. He would have been her mate, though many orcs struggled to differentiate that term from 'slave.'

But things had not gone that way, and now she had no idea what to do. Every day, she choked down an impulse to ravish Roger. Every morning, she came closer and closer to waking him up by attacking him in his bed, and every evening she scooted her bed closer to his, just a bit. She wanted to force him down, to take him and make him hers, irrevocably and completely. The desire was becoming a need, and she didn't know how much longer she could fight it. She at times struggled to remember why she did.

Such thoughts were more overwhelming now, considering she lay in Roger's bed, under his sheet and blankets, surrounded by his scent and feeling the warmth that hugged his body each night. Whether it was because it was the closer one to the stairs, or because Roger was so used to tending her leg atop that bed each morning, she had awoken there instead of upon her own bed as Roger was treating her wounds. For a moment, she was lost in an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu from the first time Roger had cleaned her wounded leg on the floor downstairs. Now, though, she could enjoy this feeling of closeness to him, even at the moment she feared she was about to be torn from him by her own stupidity.

She inhaled deeply as a warm ache suffused her, and her hand reflexively crept below her stomach, a recently-familiar solution to her doubts and disquiet. Pain stopped its progress, both that of her radiating bruises and that deep within her chest. She was always taking things from Roger, but she had nothing to give. She didn't even know what he wanted.

But whatever he did want, she decided with agonizing determination, he deserved. He had offered her so much, and that meant that, if he wanted something now, then she would give it to him. If he asked her to leave, if he told her he intended to leave, whatever it may be; she would accept it. He deserved to be happy, whatever it cost her. That thought lingered with her, a bitter medicine that hung like the taste of bile in her throat, yet it granted her enough resigned peace of mind to descend slowly back into unconsciousness. She fell asleep with the scent of the man she loved all around her, but with tears budding at the edges of her eyes.

She wasn't awake when the footsteps climbed the stairs, not stopping until they paused at the edge of the bed beside her. She only made a soft sound and nuzzled the pillow, lost in the blissful peace of slumber, as a hand brushed a lock of hair away from one of the livid bruises on her face. She didn't stir as the blanket was pulled further over her shoulder and chest, nor at the sound as the bed across the room scraped backwards as someone sat upon it, only, after a long moment's consideration, to scoot forward exactly as much as it had just shifted. The man atop the bed sighed and stared in her direction, but she never knew.

Silence reigned over the room for a long time as two hearts beat in unconscious unity, lost in their own fears and concerns, yet neither able to find the refuge so close at hand.

* * *

Even the air of the city gleamed with golden light. It was especially obvious when one looked to the colossal edifice at the heart of the city, the Temple of the Holy Martyr that was lit throughout the day and night by torches and braziers, the dancing light of individual fires united into a single unwavering glow. The great monolith was constructed of white marble that returned that shine, so that even at night the city seemed to defy the darkness.

Olympus City, as it had been renamed long ago, had become a place of order and cleanliness. The unbesmirched glory of the Temple was mirrored, albeit in a lesser fashion, by the five great buildings at the end of the main avenues that ran through the town and terminated at the Temple, with lesser roads connecting each of those structures to the others. These were the headquarters of five of the six Holy Orders: the Inquisitors to the north, Defenders to the east, Hospitalliers to the southeast, Warders to the southwest, and Crusaders to the west. The rest of the intervening space was filled by the necessities of a normal city, homes and businesses and people, all still held to the expectations of precise organization, all still oriented towards the Temple constantly.

The only variation from that perfect star-shape was the final great building, which sat directly in front of the Temple, facing it directly yet still dwarfed by the looming monolith. It was the headquarters closest to the heart of the city, and the Order closest to the heart of their faith, or so the inhabitants claimed: the Holy Order of the Purifiers. It, like all the others, was emblazoned with the mark of their religion, the bronzed flame, but superimposed was the symbol of their organization, the Divine Sword, the weapon of the Holy Martyr. The building, nearly a fortress in and of itself, shared a courtyard with the Temple, but while the holy sanctum was thronged with supplicants and pilgrims, the end of the courtyard near the Purifier's Keep was all but abandoned, because those knights found their duties kept them further afield.

Only a single young man strode across that barren expanse, walking with the steady stride of one with an important appointment to keep. He kept his eyes affixed upon his destination, glancing upwards only once to marvel at the light emanating from the summit of the Temple, a shimmering beam of pale golden light that, higher in the heavens, cascaded back down as a vast dome, the Holy Barrier that protected the city from its monstrous enemies; such was visible throughout the city, including from the northern districts familiar to him, but was especially tangible so near to the core of their conviction. Instead, he made quick progress to the doors of the Purifier's Keep, where the guards nodded a brief salute to him. Despite the youthful face under his slicked-back dark hair, they knew better than to question him, judging him instead by the silver and white trim of his surcoat, colors typical of a man of the Orders, as well as by the symbol upon his breast: it was much like the symbol of the Purifiers, but with the sword replaced a short staff topped by a star-in-pentagram with an eye at its heart. That mark in particular earned a respectful, fearful silence from all it looked upon, and even other knights were not immune from its power.

A young page was quick to meet the man as he entered the building, and soon led him further inside, leaving behind the austere foyer and travelling down well-lit halls peopled occasionally by conversing servants and bold, guffawing knights, all of whom were muted to some extent by the sight of the newcomer. If this response pleased the young man, so new to his station and the power it brought, he bore no sign of it, instead looking onward with a raptor's eye, missing nothing and, it was whispered as he departed, quick to detect secret sins.

At long last, the page, perspiring slightly, delivered the young man to his destination. With a single knock at the great oak door, he announced himself, and a voice inside beckoned him in. The doors opening and closing betrayed no conversation, and the portal had barely sealed when the page made his retreat, eager to put this task behind him. He knew, as did any who dwelled within Olympus City, that one behaved with especial care in front of an Inquisitor, even one that was only an Errant.

The scene within the office the man had entered was far more cordial. The young inquisitor ran an eye over the room, noting its spartan decorations, typical for a man of the faith like the one seated at the massive desk placed before the room's single, Temple-facing window. Much of its ornamentation was found in the rich wood of the furnishings, and the assortment of books placed in decided order upon looming shelves. Disrupting the peace of the room, however, were a wealth of musty papers, stacked in leaning piles and scattered in overlapping proximity upon the desk. Some were even pinned onto the wall, maps colored with fresh ink. At any other occasion, the young man knew, the owner of the office would have been aghast at such chaos, but this had been of his own making.

Said owner sat like a stone amidst the paper hurricane, casually proofreading the letter before him without looking up to ascertain the nature of his visitor. Only once he was finished did he lower the paper again to the table, nodding contentedly. The man, dressed in the plain-yet-rich regalia of a high-ranking member of the church, was fairly unremarkable, with short-cut brown hair and no beard to cover his lips or squared chin, yet he had an unmistakable presence. He looked up with a placid smile, taking note of the insignia upon his guest's chest. "Ah, my boy," he said, his voice clear and crisp, "it seems congratulations are in order. You have attained your promotion to Errant, have you not?"

Having been acknowledged, the young man stepped closer to the desk, nodding curtly as he came. "I have indeed. My most gracious thanks for your recommendation."

The priest sat back, templing his fingers before him as he did so. "But of course. The Inquisitors are not the most populous of the Orders, and are always in need of bright young men like yourselves." His smile held a hidden blade, steel shared by the man across the table, like two predators on a shared hunt. "And, considering your Order holds greater power here than most, it is always good to have friends deeper among their ranks."

The inquisitor nodded at the priest. The man seated before him was a Prelate, one of the highest-ranking positions within their faith, but both of them were aware of what was unknown to many: that priest had been given special missions and trust from the very highest places within the Temple, and serving with him was opportunity to climb the ranks very swiftly. It was his unique quest that had seen him move his offices away from the high cathedrals where the other clergy reigned to this bastion of the monster hunters. He had been assigned to pursue something that very important, very holy men believed might be the end of their war with monsterkind.

He had also been the young inquisitor's mentor, once he had left his family home and joined the Orders. The church itself was somewhat removed from the militant orders, despite their shared purpose, but the knights were required to be frequent visitors to the cathedrals. The knights were all taught that their faith was their shield against the perfidious arts of the beasts beyond the barriers, and the priests were their guides towards deeper piety. On one of his own visits to the Cathedral of the Illuminating Flame, the youthful inquisitor-to-be had been approached by this same priest, who himself would later be promoted to his current high rank. Familiar with the name of the inquisitor's family, he had called upon the young man to pay him visit independent of his fellows, and that meeting had been the beginning of a friendship that had helped guide the young man's ascension through the ranks of his Order.

"Ah, but pray forgive me," said the priest, reaching out to pull a rope that dangled near to the desk. The rope ran into the ceiling, and from there doubtlessly to a bell in a servant's waiting room. "There has been a bit of an incident at one of our holiest sites," the Prelate explained, folding the letter he had been examining and placing it into a protective envelope. "It seems a parish priest, a man of some age and popular with the people of the town in the shadow of the Chapel of Divine Revelation, has been found guilty of giving shelter to a monster, of all crimes."

"And has paid for it with his life, I assume," the younger man ventured.

"It seems not everyone understands the Law as well as you, I fear." Color began to creep into the priest's cheeks, as few topics could inspire fury in him like those who betrayed their humanity by colluding with monsters. "The local officials have decided to show unreasonable mercy, unaware what effect such actions may have upon the flock. I am countermanding that, and sending representatives to see it done." He punctuated that statement by pressing his signet into the wax sealing the envelope.

"Is that why-" The inquisitor paused as a knock came at the door, and a paling servant entered. He didn't resume until the bowing servant retreated back outside the door, letter in hand. "Is that why you called for me?"

"No," the Prelate responded. "That requires more priestly action than you can offer, though I am sure a few junior knights may accompany the man I have chosen. Instead, the matter I summoned you for relates to this…mess." He swept his hands before him, sighing. "It seems such blasphemy as that priest's is spreading these days. These papers were seized from the business of a local cartographer, after he turned to heresy. He was sent beyond the barrier on a mission, but returned spewing sacrilege about monsters being kinder to man than the church proclaims. He was arrested immediately, of course."

"Inevitably," the young man agreed. "Any who would consort with such filth deserves an ignominious death. May the flame purify him for the afterlife."

"Not yet," the priest sighed, irritably. He stood, walking over to the charts pinned to the wall. The young man recognized them as maps of their continent, but could spot a few uncomfortable details: cities and landmarks beyond the Great Veil to the east that protected them from the dark energies of the Demon Queen, while that immense barrier was itself unmarked. The priest pointed to several locations as he spoke, distractedly. "The man has a talent the church can profit from, to be sure. These maps are from the era before the Last War of the Demon King, the oldest and most complete I have seen." His hand stopped at a location to the west of Olympus City, then travelled down to the southern sea, then to a destination far to the east of the Great Veil, tapping it absentmindedly. "Through his papers, we have located several sites of great importance to the greater plans of the Ecclesiastic Council, and are making moves to take them." The inquisitor stepped closer, inspecting the map. "The mapmaker will serve us as long as he is able, and then he will suffer for his crimes. As for yourself," the Prelate turned to his pupil with a resolute stare. "The forces of the Holy Orders will be moving to take control of an area near one of these sites. Each of the Orders will be sending forces of various sizes, but I need someone I can trust to report back to me on their progress." His finger had come to rest upon a mountainous region to the north, and the inquisitor saw that it was near a town of some size, noted as 'Goslar.' "Will you be my eyes among the Inqisitorial representatives?"

The young man bowed deeply to his patron. "I will gladly serve wherever you will have me."

The priest's face showed a rare warmth, and he clapped the boy on the shoulder. "I knew you could be relied upon. I will send word when more determinations have been made, but your force will be moving soon, so stand prepared. You have my gratitude and favor," he smiled, adding emphasis to the new title, "Errant Miralis."

Inquisitor Errant Richard Mirilas smiled broadly, saluting the other man. "We will make you proud. That area will soon belong to the Holy Church; you have my word on that. I will keep you well-informed." And with a final respectful bow, the young man turned on his heels and left, closing the door to the Prelate's office, well on his path to conquest.

 **Author's Note:** I am pleased to admit that I have made good progress since my last posting. Currently, even as I post chapter 3 here, I am working on the _lengthy_ final scene for chapter sex- I mean, six, as well as chapter seven. For those of you here for the more tantalizing portions of the story, I apologize that you will have to wait that long. I hope that I make up for your patience.

This particular story is a tad more complex than the previous, I will openly admit. I have a variety of subplots I intend to follow, along with the primary plot of Roger and Priscilla, and the meta-plot involving a much larger conflict. To that end, I am making allusions to stories yet to come, since I have already begun storyboarding for the third tale in this arc. I can only hope that you remain with me for that long, that my writing continues to please, and that I maintain my current frenetic pace.

Again, as always, I appreciate your readership, and would be most pleased to hear commentary on my humble offerings. If you excuse me, I have a scene to finish. And then, I sleep...

~Wynn P.


	4. Holding Hands

The women entering the cavern hung their heads as they came, defeat written in bold letters across their faces. They had been sent out from their home on a mission, and returned now empty-handed, preparing to face the wrath of their chieftain. The leader of the band wore a particularly stricken expression; she had been promoted to her position of lieutenant all too recently, and desperately wanted to avoid the exile her predecessor had been given. After all, they were orcs, and the tribe was their strength.

As they made their way into the heart of the cave, they stepped into the glow of numerous torches arranged in a wide semi-circle. On either side of the chamber were the long tables they shared with the rest of their tribe at dinner times, the crude wooden benches stained and splattered with grease. Centered between the two tables, against the back wall and at the apex of the curve of flaring torches, was a conqueror's throne: a looming monolith of a chair, with its high apex crowned with a bull's skull, with the long arms and squat feet carved with images of snarling beasts. All around this barbaric seat were strewn the fruits of larceny, with piles of coins commingled with chests of gems, with murals and tapestries thoughtlessly interspersed, porcelain and gold and silver and ivory all glowing in the light of the fires.

The woman that lounged upon that grim couch was no less barbarous in nature. Her head was crowned with a boar's skull, and the cranium of a great raptor rested on her left shoulder, but otherwise she wore little in the way of armor. Black strips of cloth crisscrossed over her nut-brown skin, covering only her most intimate places and struggling to restrain her immense chest; the rest she left bared, as if to defiantly show her unscathed flesh to any potential enemies. Her wrists and ankles were covered with beast pelts, the tufts of fur flaring out from their edges dyed white to match her voluminous hair. A massive blacksteel axe sat across her lap, the weapon long enough to pass as a bardiche, but with a boar-skull-shaped counterweight on the back of the blade. Despite its significant heft, the woman held the mastercrafted weapon like a scepter of state, resting her head on her other fist as she stared at the newcomers, a beast-queen awaiting her supplicants.

The orc in the lead of the procession bowed deeply to the high orc that sat upon the throne, as did the others following her, those latter women glad they were not the ones that had to break the ill news to their chieftain. Swallowing loudly, the lieutenant looked up with fear in her eyes, finally forcing words past her gripped throat. "Berala-"

"So, ya failed again, didja?" Berala deduced bluntly. She rolled her citrine-color eyes dramatically. "Why do I bother with ya, hunh? Can't do anythin' right." Huffing, she stood from her throne, the butt of her axe clanging against the podium her chair sat upon. "What am I goin' to do with ya?"

The orc in front lowered her head, her lavender hair covering both of her eyes, instead of the one it usually concealed. "I'm sorry, boss. We tried, but those stupid lizards are escorting caravans now!"

"And ya've never heard of an ambush?" Berala demanded, her axe falling into her other hand with a meaty slap.

"I'm sorry-" the lavender-haired orc began, squeezing her eyes shut to avoid the disappointment in her leader's eyes.

"Times like these, I 'bout miss that stupid girl that ya replaced," Berala grumbled, frowning to the side as she chewed on her lip. Her former lieutenant had definitely been capable. Maybe too much so; it had led her to confront Berala for leadership of the tribe, and Berala had barely managed to defeat her. She had been forced to exile the girl, but ever since that day their coffers had gradually diminished. Once, their main hall had all but glowed with wealth. Now, they were forced to buy what they needed from unscrupulous merchants willing to trade with bandits, and it was bleeding them dry. Berala had considered leading her gang of orcs somewhere else, but the money flowing out of Gsolar's mines was too tempting of a target for her to stray.

Hope ignited in the eyes of the lavender-haired orc. "Well, about that, boss…" She looked up, and saw she definitely had Berala's attention.

"Go on, Viola," Berala prompted impatiently, sitting back down.

"Well, it was the weirdest thing. The girl we had doing lookout at the northern post saw one of those mercenary patrols. The strange thing is that they had an orc with them, one with brown hair." Viola smiled as she noticed Berala sat at the edge of her seat; their failure was all but forgotten in the face of this news. "Seems an old sister of ours has signed up with those Forked Blade brutes. And that's not all, either. We did run into one of our contacts from the city, and we asked about old Priscilla. They said she was involved in some trouble a few weeks back, with those holy knights, and would have died…" She paused, ready to savor the impending reaction, even as much as the news had originally galled her as well. "Except her man saved her."

"Her what." Berala's flat tone belied the warring emotions in her eyes: rage, terror, envy. That civil war was soon eclipsed, however, by a swelling savage hope.

"Yeah, it seems she's been living with a man in town." The orcs behind Viola grumbled out loud, obviously bitter that their estranged sibling would have greater luck than their entire tribe, but they had not come to same realization that Viola had, the same that Berala was obviously on the road to discovering. After all, while Priscilla had been the tribe's best strategist, she had lacked a deviousness that Viola possessed amply.

"Is that so?" Berala mused, seeing her subordinate's wicked grin and nodding, pleased they shared the same idea. A flame was kindling in Berala's heart as she thought about this issue. She had been almost bored recently, despite their struggles; leadership had become bureaucracy instead of battle, and she was only well-suited for one of those. Here, however, was a challenge she could embrace. "How about that? Our little sis has gone and got herself a man. Shame she forgot that what she gets, she has ta share with the tribe." At this, the other orcs looked to her, surprised; after all, it had been Berala that had exiled her former lieutenant. "Jus' imagine the look on lil' Prissie's face when we snag that man out from under her." A coarse laughter rippled through the orcs, and a new lust began to burn in their eyes. "Now, get on with ya! Seems I've got me some planning ta do." At this, the orcs scattered, bawdy conversations erupting as they made their way to their own dens, all thoughts of their previous failings forgotten.

Left alone, Berala sat in silence, staring intently into the dark. A terrible excitement had sent her heart to drumming on her ribcage, and she shifted in her seat, her lips parting around her flicking tongue. She had no idea what this man looked like, but anyone Priscilla thought worthy would be a decent entertainment for her, as well. Truth be told, as much as Berala's body craved a man to subjugate, it was the thought of crushing her ambitious rebel of a lieutenant that made her body flush with heat. Her breathing heavy, the high orc grinned ferally into the shadows, staring in the direction of the slumbering town of Goslar.

"Jus' ya wait, Priss. I'm coming for what's yours."

* * *

The sun was descending on the mountains as Roger wearily made his way up the stairs of his store, carrying with him his usual implements of healing, along with two bowls of a meat-thickened soup that trailed steam as he climbed higher. Not an hour before, Priscilla had returned to the store for the evening, but had mentioned needing him to see to a new wound after the store closed. The last customers of the evening had finally just departed, and he had bolted the door behind them, before turning to the stewpot that had been simmering, all of his culinary arts practiced in the still moments between visitors seeking his vast and varied selection of chemicals. It was at moments like that he noticed the similarities between his profession and Mithal's, though thankfully he had never confused the two; he would hate to send someone home with a vial of his finest boeuf bourguignon instead of an expectorant, though in his defense he did firmly believe in the healing potential of a fine, warm stew.

As he came to the stairs' summit, he quickly discovered Priscilla lounging upon his bed, clutching her arm as if trying to conceal the wound from him. He lowered the two bowls to a nearby table with two mismatched chairs waiting across from each other, table and chairs placed against the far wall where her bed had once been before it had moved continually closer to his own. He also rested the majority of his healing tools as he took up a clean rag and bottle of purified water. "Alright, show me," he prompted sternly. Priscilla didn't respond, her head hanging low enough for her eyes to hide within her bangs. "Come on, it can't be that bad," Roger prodded, reaching out to gently pull her hand away.

As her hand shifted, he spotted the wound she had warned him about earlier: a shallow abrasion, barely pinker than the surrounding skin, with a bruise already ghosting away surrounding it. "I told you it wasn't bad!" Priscilla laughed, dropping her façade of being badly wounded in favor of enjoying his surprise. He rolled his eyes at her grin, beginning to walk back to the table. "Hey, no, you still have to treat it! Infection, infection!" she protested behind him, drawing him to a faux-resentful pause.

"You are really milking this," Roger sighed, dashing the water onto the rags despite himself. "I spoil you." She didn't disagree as he turned back and began to clean the scratch, dabbing at the 'wound' and applying a dash of one of his poultices before taking up a bandage and winding it about her upper arm. She watched him despite her familiarity with these acts, and regarded his finished work with pride, wearing the bandage as if it were a silken ribbon. "There, all better," he declared, and she offered him a brilliant smile in gratitude, before swinging her legs off the bed and heading with him towards the table that bore their dinner.

As they both sat down, quickly devouring the stew, Roger stole an occasional glance at her, watching as she savored the extra chunks of meat he had generously ladled into her bowl. To his relief, all the bruises across her body had faded without residual marks in the weeks that had passed the day when she had been battered by the Purifier knights. He had been relieved when the visiting doctor had declared her free of any broken bones or serious internal hemorrhaging, and had left her bruises to the mending ministrations of the great physician Time. Still, Roger had been relieved to see the dark stains turn lighter before disappearing, as it seemed that since that day she had born a mournful darkness in her heart that had lightened with the fading wounds.

Now, however, she tasked him daily with new wounds to tend. Her apprenticeship with Lacerta had begun soon after that day; she had accepted his suggestion of the arrangement with a fatalistic resignation that had deeply concerned him, but had refused to tell him what was behind her melancholy. It seemed the release that physical activity granted her had dispelled much of the clouds hanging over her mood, and these days she came back to his store with a smile on her face, even though sometimes he thought he glimpsed that earlier depression when she didn't notice him looking.

The tales Priscilla shared with him about her time with the mercenaries showed that his idea about her working with the Forked Blade had been a wise one. Lacerta had brought a small class of new recruits with her; apparently she had assumed the assignment that kept her near Goslar, whatever it may be, would be calm enough for a while to give her time to show her initiates the ropes of their profession. Priscilla had quickly earned her place among the lizardman neophytes, taking to the training with a talent beyond her experience, even surpassing her peers who had been with Lacerta for a while longer.

That, along with a few other incidents, had led to a bit of strife between her and the other budding mercenaries. In one such instance, Lacerta had had them all wear padded armor for their sparring matches; the lizard girls wore theirs easily, but Priscilla's ample chest had made even the largest set they had physically incompatible with her, which had led to surging irritation among the lizardwomen… her trainers included. Her bruises from training had been especially plentiful that day. Her berserker tendencies had also caused a few issues, though Lacerta had managed to drill discipline into her somewhat enough that she was less of a danger to her allies.

She had progressed enough despite her short time with the company that they had even been taking her on patrols of the area with more experienced members, and Lacerta had assured Roger that in no time Priscilla would be a worthy addition to any mercenary band. His orcish roommate had taken that news as a badge of pride, though Roger quickly learned that discussing the upcoming completion of her training tended to lead to her showing sorrow in unguarded moments, the cause a mystery he had not yet solved.

She cast a hopeful glance up at him as her spoon clattered against her empty bowl, and he nodded to her. "Go ahead, there's plenty left." As she enthusiastically rushed down the stairs, bowl in hand, he watched her with a melancholy smile of his own. He didn't know what to do when it came to her. Over time, he had gotten accustomed to having her in his life, so the thought of her joining Lacerta's company and leaving him filled him with unease. Even the single occasion when she had gone on a longer patrol and spent the night afield had left his home feeling hollow, ringing with silence like the curved shells he had seen on a visit to the ocean as a child. That restlessness had tormented him at nights worse than Priscilla's snoring, even though it now came from a bed almost close enough to touch from where he rested, her inexorable inching progress leaving only a narrow aisle now between the beds.

As Priscilla returned up the stairs, delicately balancing a teeming bowl thick with meaty chunks, he laughed and turned his attentions to his own meal. A stray thought crossed his mind as he bit into a broth-softened carrot: he had almost forgotten the message he had received earlier in the day, brought to him via a familiar orange–haired goblin messenger. It seemed his special order was all but complete, and in record time; it would be delivered the following afternoon, likely while he was still off purchasing supplies and materials. Roger knew it would be best if Priscilla would be away, to save her from the curiosity of such a massive package being left at his store, but she had told him the previous day that the members of the Forked Blade were to take that day off to enjoy their pay.

It was with that in mind that he made his offer to her. "So," he began, sipping the broth lingering at the bottom of his bowl, "tomorrow I have to restock supplies again. You have the day off, right?"

She nodded, swallowing hesitantly. "Do you want me to run the store?" she asked, her concern plain in the waver of her voice. He had once allowed her to help him during a busy evening; it had not ended well. She was clearly afraid that being left alone with the shop for the day might have apocalyptic results.

"Well," he started, with a painfully-sculpted indifference, "if you wanted, you could come with me and help me carry the supplies. If you wanted," he repeated, studying the bottom of his stew bowl with profound interest.

Silence gripped her for but just a moment. "Yes!" she exploded, dropping her spoon into her stew. "I mean, if you need the help. Yes, I'd be happy to!" She beamed at him. "It's a date." She froze at her own words, and they both wore matching blushes for a long moment.

"Well," he finally spoke, "I'm going to get ready for bed." He stood from the table, pausing long enough for her to drain the last vestiges of her broth and hand him her bowl to return downstairs. As he made his way down the stairs, his still-burning ears could hear the soft linen whispers of her changing into her nightclothes. He placed the bowls in the washbasin, rinsing them clean of the last splatters of stew as he choked down his own eagerness at their planned outing. Once he had sufficiently calmed himself, he started back up the stairs, just in time to hear the scraping shriek of a bed being moved just a tad closer to his own.

When he emerged into the bedroom, having changed his own garments and extinguishing the candles as he went, he found Priscilla still getting settled into bed. He had to turn sideways to make it down the aisle between the two beds, but that spared him the embarrassment of facing her direction overmuch; he had already noticed the gleam of moonlight off of pale, curved skin bared by her disorderly shift. She thankfully covered herself with her blankets as he was climbing into his own bed, though she left her arm hanging out into the gulch between them, hand drooping listlessly as she fought to find her comfort.

Roger found his own struggles in that regard to be fruitless almost immediately. His heart still pounded from their earlier exchange, and he stared in mute frustration at the ceiling. His periodic tossing and turning was echoed occasionally by hers, a portrait of two exhausted souls running sleep to ground without any success. So it went, until finally Roger sprawled out across his bed, his right arm stretching into the abyss, and his fingers brushing accidentally against hers.

Two hearts started in fear at that ghostly touch, yet neither moved. He had not realized her arm was once more hanging out from that side of her bed, had not planned that contact between them. Any thought of sleep was, for the moment, utterly vanquished. It was then interred by another such touch, as she brushed her hand against his, intentionally this time, though any further purpose was hidden from him.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Roger sought answers in the darkness. He had spent so long worrying about the future recently, about what was troubling Priscilla, about what was the right way to act around her, that his mind felt as though it had been driven onward without rest for weeks now. His heart had throbbed, and raced, and hung heavy in his chest. He was exhausted, and yet he felt a pulse of energy from that brief brushing kiss of their knuckles. It was just enough power for his heart to take the reins from his tired brain, and so he moved his hand against hers, and kept it there, as they mutually fumbled for just a moment, until their hanging hands were linked with interwoven fingers.

It was if that contact gave him the succor he had sought. He felt the tension in his back muscles unwind, his shoulders sinking into the bed, and he heard a sigh of contentment from across the gulf. Both shifted in their beds, finding comfort at last, but their hands stayed as still as a lodestar. Sleep pressed against Roger like a fleece blanket, and he accepted it with a relieved heart, his breath slowing as he drifted into his final thoughts. Perhaps he even drifted into sleep, but couldn't tell, submerging into slumber and resurfacing with the subtleness of a turtle in a stream.

Even then his sleep-hazed mind pressed on. He had worried so much lately about Priscilla, but there was a lot in his fears he had hidden from himself. His currently-lowered defenses bared those truths to him now, opened the floodgates to his secret admissions. He wanted her to take a position as a guard in Goslar. He wanted her to stay here, with him. He wanted her to meet his friends, and he hers. He wanted her to have a future where she came home from her shift, and he treated her bruises and scrapes and listened to her stories over a bowl of stew, exactly like now, or maybe even something more. He wanted… her.

This final truth gleamed like a torch in the darkness, and he opened his eyes, forgoing slumber to face it directly. He had come to know it, but he hadn't accepted it. Living with Priscilla had come to be part of him, and he didn't want to lose that. Even if Lacerta was right that trouble was coming to Goslar, then he wanted them to stay together, whether they left or stayed. And he thought she felt the same, even if she had felt distant lately, even if she had ceased her more direct approaches on him; those two changes had been particularly worrisome, but the feeling of her hand in his warded those fears away.

In the silence, his own breath slow and even, he could tell she wasn't sleeping either. Her breathing had changed, taken on a faster rhythm than his own, one that was somewhat irregular. He heard her shifting under her blanket, though her left hand stayed bound to his. She sighed in contentment, though her breathing became more ragged, pulsing and heavy, and he could hear her bed creak as she moved again. It was when she moaned gently that he realized what he was hearing, and he stared wide-eyed upwards in shock.

He heard her shift in bed to glance in his direction as she ceased her activity, trying to peer through the darkness to see his face, to detect if he had heard or if he was sleeping soundly. Apparently, she couldn't notice the way his eyes were screwed shut in a poor facsimile of rest, nor the beads of cold sweat pearling at his forehead. Relieved, she settled back in bed, and he could tell that within moments she was back on task from the faint trembling of the hand that held his. He resolved to suffer in silence through this as the pace of her breathing increased, and more and more seductively soft sounds escaped her lips, though he prayed the moonlight would not betray him by revealing the glowing crimson of his cheeks, nor the other area that had siphoned off the remainder of his blood, raising his blanket heavenward.

His delectable torture continued for just a while longer, until, with a shudder that passed down her arm into his, she climaxed, gasping for breath. It was in that frozen moment that he smiled, feeling a pleasure of his own he couldn't explain. Perhaps that was why, moments later, as she melted in exhaustion into the softness of her bed, he squeezed her hand.

All movement from across the gorge between them stopped, her very breath snared by his movement. She stayed frozen for a moment that was stretched like taffy, until finally her head swiveled just enough to face towards him. He didn't look in her direction, but didn't hide his all-but-imperceptible smile, either. Instead, he tightened his grip once more, caressing the back of her hand with his thumb.

Many moments passed before she squeezed back, a grateful press that she held for many long heartbeats. He didn't have to look over to see her smile, because he knew its twin was on his lips. Instead, they both sank into their beds and into sleep, their relief freeing them from the chains that had held them apart for so long, and together in peace they savored the best sleep either of them had enjoyed in ages.

* * *

The town had been called Fairhaven, and fair it had been, once. Centered in a wide valley that had been carved eons ago by the now-gentle river that burbled at its banks beside the town, Fairhaven had been all but self-sufficient, featuring mines in the nearby mountains, farms across the wide river, fish and hunting keeping even the burliest of tavern-goers well-pleased, all of which had seen to it becoming one of the largest towns in the region. It had been fairly removed from the greater towns and cities further west, but that had spared its halcyon existence from the politics and corruption of those realms as well. All in all, it had been a good place to grow up.

The only oddity about the town had been the stone tower atop a small hillock at its center, which had been there for as long as any could recall; perhaps it even predated the town, or perhaps the town had sprung up around it. This tower was the tallest thing in the valley, casting its shadow like a colossal sundial over the extent of the village. It had once been the home of the village's defender, the man that had watched eastward for signs of the coming storm.

But he had failed to defend the town, had died in the attempt, and now Fairhaven was no more.

The knight walked through the ruins of Fairhaven, glancing about him as he trod down familiar streets, now long choked with weeds and bulging roots. Nature had had its way with the ruins of the town, reabsorbing the fallen timbers and scattered stones and redecorating to its taste. As he walked, his eyes meandered across the empty spaces that had once held people's lives, and it may have been just a trick of the moonlight but he would almost swear he could see phantasms of those forgotten souls drifting between homes that now existed only as collapsed cairns.

It had been over a century since Fairhaven had died in smoke and screams and shadows. Very few of its residents had managed to flee the hordes that had defiled it, and of them, only a couple yet remained to remember as it had once been. The knight could still recall the night it had happened, the coursing terror that had filled him as he had flown from his only home with nothing more than what he had been carrying, The armies of the Demon King had been relentless and ruthless, killing man, woman, and child where they ran. The last the knight had seen of his adoptive father had been him standing defiantly in front of a wave of the creatures, fury crackling within his eyes.

As the knight ascended the hill towards the tower, he heard the whispers of that night ringing in the wind. He had sworn to never see that happen to anyone else, and he too had failed… he had seen it again and again, until the war had ended. Things had changed since then, but as much as the world evolved, it kept mostly the same shape: atrocities still occurred, and people with power still lusted for more. Now, matters were on the other hand, and he was determined to stop the holy hordes aiming to commit the same crimes that had ended Fairhaven.

He arrived at the tower, and the door swung open at a gentle push of his hand, the hinges freshly oiled and cleaned of rust. As he made his way into the room at ground level, he glanced about, his mind filling in the furniture and artifacts that time had claimed. He could all but see the sternly-demanding lord of the tower, his lips set in a thin line as he lectured the boy he had taken under his wing. Those stentorian tones still echoed off the unforgetting stone walls, and the knight took a measure of comfort from them as he made his way higher into the tower, steps unfettered by the ghosts that clung to him.

As he reached a higher level, he noticed a presence in the shadows, a hulking male form with a massive stone brick in his hands. The knight paused, but the man had already seen him, and turned towards him, the moonlight gleaming both off of his bald head and the bared blade in his other hand. The figure made no move toward the knight, who waited patiently.

"Evening, sir," spoke the figure in a thick accent, smiling broadly before turning back to his task. Crouching, he pressed his bladed trowel against the wet mortar before him before hefting the brick into place, the movement smooth despite the fact the stone was nearly a boulder unto itself. The burly man obviously felt no need to speak further, focused entirely on his task, his eyes focused under his bushy eyebrows, his lips pressed somewhere under his dense mustache and beard.

"My thanks for your help with the repairs, Claude," the knight offered, pleased to see the man's diligence.

"You gave me and wife a place to live. Least we can do, fix it up." At this, the Frank gave another guileless smile to the other man. "Miss Gellie is upstairs, I think. She cleans the floors."

The knight didn't mention it, but he was pretty sure that the man's wife had been through this area rather recently, judging from the spotlessness of the stonework before him, along with the faint traces of blue gelid residue in Claude's mustache and beard. "Well, then, keep up the good work. I think we may have company, soon enough."

"Already do." The Frank nodded past him, and the knight started, suddenly noticing the presence behind him.

"I must say, I am impressed," he said, turning to face the kunoichi. "You've gotten even better at that."

The woman nodded her gratitude, not hiding her flush of pride at the compliment. "I bring further word from my Mistress," she said directly, before reaching behind her to retrieve a bundle she wore strapped over her shoulder, "along with correspondence from Mistress Mephis." She quickly removed it from the pouch, revealing it to be a stack of letters, the envelopes in various shades of lilac and pink, with a potently-sweet scent wafting from them, mixed in with other muskier fragrances. The knight accepted the hefty linguistic bouquet with a long-suffering sigh, not sparing a glance towards the letters themselves, most of which were signed with great flourishes that incorporated hearts into many of the letters.

"I trust she is doing well?" he asked, exasperated tolerance tinging his concern.

"She wanted me to say," the kunoichi's voice spiked in pitch, "'Tell my darling that I miss him terribly, and that he should come visit me and forget this whole wretched mess. And leave that stuffy old dullahan standing guard in a corner somewhere.'" The kunoichi coughed, struggling to return her voice to the proper serious tone. "She does have a more pressing matter that she wanted to alert you to: a young girl appeared in one of the chambers of her chateau, and Mistress Mephis believes it to be someone connected to you. She describes it further in," the kunoichi drew another letter from her attire, this one all but indistinguishable from the others in the heart-speckled bundle, "this missive here."

The knight nodded his gratitude to the kunoichi for sparing him from wading through the rest of the letters to find the one of immediate importance. "Very good. If it is who I believe it to be, we'll make a more permanent home for the girl here. Soon enough, many more-" Before he could respond further, however, a squelching liquid sound interrupted him, and both of them turned to see a translucent, viscous blue liquid descending from a crack in the ceiling onto the bald pate and shoulders of the laborer behind them.

"Ah, Gellie, Boss is here," Claude protested, but still the fluid oozed down, covering him in sapphire hues that contrasted with the redness in his cheeks. A beaming blue face soon formed from the spreading mass, drawing close to her husband and pressing her lips to his. The laborer could only make protesting sounds and glance frantically to the watching pair as the slime overwhelmed him with her gelatinous affection.

"Shall we leave them and head to the summit of the tower?" the knight suggested, chuckling. The kunoichi was slow to respond, staring in fascination with her tail waving as Claude plopped back onto his rear, his eyes closed as he met the slime's kisses hungrily. It took the knight clearing his throat, already climbing the stairs to the next floor, before she hastened to join him. Behind them, the rocking fluid sounds of the hungry slime swallowed even her husband's voice.

The cold wind whipped harder against the knight as he emerged onto the flat apex of the tower, but it didn't stop him from walking right to the edge to rest against the merlons, wavering a bit unsteadily as he adjusted to being far taller than he had been when he had last done this, so long ago. His eyes flew over the shadowed ruins of the town again, painted with the bright hues in his mind's eye, resurrected by the necromancy of nostalgic memory. For so long, this town had been dead, and nothing could bring back what had been lost that bloody day.

But he hadn't been the only young man to escape the town's demise. Another, one with grander dreams and a greater future, had come to dream of an end to an ancient conflict, and even now worked to make that true. If that childish man could dream so big, imagine a future when man and monster didn't only tolerate but loved, then the knight could at least pave the way for that happy ending. And, just as before, it would all begin here.

"Sorry," the kunoichi apologized, her face red in the darkness.

"Working in the home of the Demon Queen, one would think you used to such… activities," the knight supposed.

Her veil hid a wicked smile, and her tail flicked like a cat up to mischief. "That doesn't mean I don't enjoy something I haven't seen before." Still, she shook her head, returning to the grave business that had brought her back west. "My Mistress is prepared to support you in your endeavors here, and agrees with your plans for this place. However, she warns against direct conflict with the Holy Orders, if it can be avoided."

The knight's voice was colder than the wind, and cut deeper. "It can't."

The woman eyed him cautiously. "Refrain as much as you are able, at the least. They both ask that."

The responding chuckle was divorced from humor. "No direct fighting, got it." He glanced back at her, and for just a moment she thought she could see a shimmering golden gleam around his left side. "But it will come eventually. I can't hold that back. They won't hesitate to kill innocents, so I can't hesitate to kill them."

"That just makes you both killers." The kunoichi sighed, feeling the weight she had seen in the eyes of both her Master and her Master's husband. "I will return when I have further news." This time, the kunoichi did not bother with a smoke bomb; instead, she seemed almost to blend into the shadows, and then she was gone.

The knight stood without moving for a long moment, before finally turning once more to gaze off the eastern side of the tower. In the skies in the distance, he could see the pale shimmer of the Great Veil, a relic of the war that had saved both humanity and monsters. A great man had sacrificed his life to make that barrier, and it had been thanks to that sacrifice that any of them had survived to see the new world they lived in. Perhaps, to make an even better world, it would take another such sacrifice, and even if it called for his own soul, he was willing to pay that price.

Without a word, the darkened knight turned from the edge of the tower and prepared to leave Fairhaven behind him, yet knowing deep down that he alone might never be able to do that.

 **Author's Note:** 4 chapters down, 5-6 to go! Admittedly, as I post this I have already finished chapter 7, and am hard at work on chapter 8, but I've decided to post a couple of times a week until I catch up to my own progress. This rapid pace is, I should note, a relative rarity; I am more accustomed to writing a chapter a week, instead of a chapter a day, but I will take this speed if offered it!

I must admit to putting a great deal of complexity into this tale, though it is for good reason. I essentially am juggling multiple plotlines at once: the primary arc, featuring Priscilla and Roger; the overarching narrative connecting all the vignettes, with the knight and the dullahan; and the set-up teasers for vignette #3, featuring- well, that would be telling, wouldn't it? Anyways, just know that things begin wrapping themselves up very swiftly now, especially for one plotline in particular...

I appreciate those of you who have commented, including my old friend Anzer'ke; it is good to hear from you once more. I would deeply appreciate hearing from others, as well, especially in regards to specific characters that people enjoy. That will help me determine what character types to consider for future stories, as well as encourage cameos of existing characters. Since the next tale in this arc is considerably more... constrained than this one, knowing characters to bring back up in side stories would be helpful.

However, considering that I am posting this fresh from working a concession stand for two ballgames, after a nine-hour workday, it is time for me to retire. I sleep...

~Wynn Pendragon


	5. Temptation

Clay chimes rang out as the door to "Pots and Stuff," announcing the first customer of the day. That ringing sound penetrated the pointed ears of the store's proprietor, and Mari Muckflinger staggered from her cot, rubbing blearily at her eyes as she struggled to change into her daytime clothing. "Gimme jus' a momen'" she mumbled, staggering from her room and banging her horned head on the doorframe in the process. That collision did no favors for the headache beating deep drums within her skull, and for not the last time she swore to herself that the previous night would be the last time she tried to outdrink her sister Miri.

Sudden sobriety gripped her, however, as she saw the nature of the day's first customers. The first was deeply familiar to her: the chemist Roger, whose dark hair and brooding manner always contrasted with his youthfully-handsome face. The surprise, however, was the woman behind him, an orc with pale brown hair, curiously gazing about the store as she hung close to Roger's side. At the sight of her, Mari's face split into a sharp-toothed grin. 'Well, well.'

Her headache falling into a backbeat, Mari crossed behind her counter and climbed the stairs to the platform that allowed her to look face-to-chin with her customers. "Welcome back!" she cried eagerly, her ruthless smile refusing to vacate her lips. "I see you brought a guest with you today. Tell me," Mari glanced at the orc, "can I interest you in something? His and hers chamberpots, perhaps? A nice decorative vase to celebrate an occasion?"

Roger glared broadswords at the goblin. "We're just here to pick up my order, Mari."

"Come on, you have to introduce us, at least!" Mari wheedled, giving the orc a once-over examination. The other woman was distracted by something else: a tanned hand that had emerged from a jug behind Roger. When the fingers took on the curl of an impending pinch, aimed precisely at Roger's right buttcheek, the orc's eyes widened in outrage, and she swiped at the hand. The offending limb retreated into the pot in a flash, and the orc hesitantly lifted the lid once more, shock painting her face when she discovered it to be empty.

"Mari, meet Priscilla, my roommate. Priscilla, meet Mari, a goblin that needs to remember she owes me for the last time I gave her advice on her love life." Roger's stare was intense, but the goblin was unfazed.

"Nah, we're even, by my accounting. I hear you've been helping Meri, too." Mari turned to lean back against her counter, inspecting her nails, as Roger yelped in pain from a pinch that had come from a pot on the other side of him. She glanced back to see him rubbing his sore left cheek, and the orc behind him was slightly crouched, looking wildly all around the room, her gaze checking each and every pot. "But I do have your order ready. Two dozen Diffudozers, three measuring cylinders, ten new flasks, and twenty new vials. Sounds like business is booming!"

Roger's face was aghast at the nickname she had given his invention, leaving him oblivious to the mayhem behind him as the orc pulled a handle from a butter churn with determination gleaming in her eyes. "Don't call them that, please."

"You break it, you buy it!" Confused, Roger turned to glance at Priscilla, who hastily hid the wooden rod behind her back as the hand she had been dueling disappeared back into a nearby ceramic box barely as big as a fist. "My sisters loved that name at dinner last night," Mari continued. "So did everyone else at the tavern. I bet that name takes off, wait and see. Oh, and I fixed these like the others, so hopefully they work for longer."

Roger nodded in gratitude. He had explained to her that his first batch of diffusers had spent the dark lavender oil way too quickly, especially the ones he had used to put the knights to sleep in the town square. Together they had adjusted the devices to have far lower settings instead, which also kept the mist from being potent enough to keep its user asleep in case of a fire or other emergency. Roger had kept the original, more powerful diffusers for himself, and Mari was willing to bet he kept them loaded after they had saved his girlfriend from the knights. Instead, the weaker versions had been selling very well; it seemed that their disastrous first application had been all the advertising Roger had needed.

"So," Mari said, her voice lowering enough that Roger stepped up to the counter. Behind him, Priscilla was distracted by her crusade against the jinn, whose hand had emerged from a flowerpot hanging in front of the orc long enough to give Priscilla a decidedly rude gesture. "Am I wrong, or is this a date?"

"Mari," he replied stiffly, his expression torn between stern and pleading, "she came out to help me carry supplies, alright?"

"Mm-hmm." Mari glanced back at the orc, who was now struggling to pull the end of the churn handle from the grasp of the jinn. "Just save me a seat next to Mithy-Poo at your wedding, okay?" She reached down to pull a hefty box from beneath her counter, presenting it to the chemist.

"Here's your love advice for the day: don't ever call him that." Roger chuckled, taking the box from her. He turned back towards Priscilla, whose head was rapidly turning from side to side as she sought her enemy once more, having finally disarmed the hand. With the box before him, Roger didn't see the hand extend from a nearby water jug, just at his waist-level. He did, however, notice said hand when it firmly cupped his most valuables. "H-hey!" Before the hand could retreat back into the jug however, still rolling his stones in her palm, the butter churn handle descended furiously onto the wrist. Djennifer's yelp echoed from all of the pots in the room simultaneously.

Moments later, as the chemist and the orc walked out of the store, he nodded back to the cheerfully-waving goblin while Priscilla bowed slightly to her, awkwardly. Before the orc could leave, however, the djinn's hand emerged from a nearby pot one final time. This time, it offered her a salute. After a moment, Priscilla grinned and returned the gesture.

Mari smiled as she watched them go, resting her chin on her hands. "Ah, young love," she sighed, then laughed. "She's going to eat him alive." Grinning, she hopped down from her counter, ready to get to work. After all, she had her own man to win.

* * *

"Sorry," Roger began as they walked down the road, his purchases from Mari's store now resting under Priscilla's arm. The morning traffic of Goslar flowed gradually around them at that hour; they had missed the rush of miners travelling to and from the mountain roads since they had overslept, not to mention Priscilla taking a long time choosing exactly which of her tunics she had wanted to wear. Still, already the air was rich with the cries of hawkers, and a medley of aromatic scents wafted from roadside foodcarts preparing their wares. "Mari can be a little… much, sometimes."

Priscilla smiled at him. "I like her. You said she is trying to get your friend Mithal? Also, what was that in the jar?"

Roger chuckled, dodging around an ambling troll and waving off a lamia merchant extending a skewer of meat towards him. He did catch Priscilla glancing at the skewer lustfully, however, and paused, reaching for his coinpouch. "Yeah, she and all of her sisters. Mithal is really in over his head on that one." He handed the coins to the lamia, who handed him a skewer heavily-laden with sauce-glazed meat cubes. He promptly extended it back to Priscilla, who took it with a grateful smile. She bit into the first dense bite, sighing in ecstasy as it released its juices in a rush into her mouth.

Swallowing, she savored the warmth of the meat flowing down into her stomach, trusting Roger to guide her through the maze of streets without a clue to their destination. "Yeah, but about that jar…?"

"Djennifer is always like that," Roger admitted with an uncomfortable laugh. "She's a jinn, so she can't hurt anyone. Unless you look into her jar, that is. Just, don't look into her jar, okay?" Priscilla nodded to this, looking increasingly concerned as she gnawed on the next morsel on her skewer.

"So, where are we going next?" she asked, shaking free from her alarm after a long moment. She didn't recognize the street they were travelling, although that was hardly a surprise. Goslar was a sizable community, and she rarely strayed from the path to Bronda's smithy and the Forked Blade's encampment outside the town.

"Well, I was thinking we could pick up a few supplies for dinner tonight. There's a new dish that Mithal taught me that I've wanted to try, so I need to buy a few groceries-"

"Then you have come to the right place!" exclaimed a high-pitched voice from nearby. Both of them glanced over to see a larger booth built into an alcove, with a long banner with grinning goblin faces hanging over the main storefront. "Veggies for Your Table!" the sign proclaimed, and the green-haired goblin girl beneath that banner offered them both a wide, shark-toothed smile as she spread her hands, indicating her wealth of cucumbers, eggplants, and other assorted produce.

"Let me guess: Meri?" Priscilla hazarded.

"No, she's the tavern girl. Muri?" Roger prompted.

"She's the one that works at the smithy," Priscilla corrected him. "Miri?"

The goblin's smile decayed into mush, and she rested her face on her counter in defeat. "Mori Melonchucker," she introduced herself, her voice muffled by the countertop. Her two prospective customers shared a grin before stepping closer to her shop, their eyes scanning over the vegetables.

With their business secured, the goblin producemonger was soon distracted by another customer, so Priscilla and Roger returned to their previous topic. "After this," Roger admitted, hefting a cabbage and inspecting it carefully, "I'm not really certain. I figured we would eat lunch at Mithal's, if you wanted." He glanced at her surreptitiously. "I wanted to introduce you to Mithal. I think you'll like him."

"I would like that." Priscilla's cheeks glowed a deeper pink.

"Other than that, the only other place I need to stop is-" Roger froze, paling drastically.

"Where?" Priscilla asked, concerned.

"Ah, it's nothing," Roger hastily assured her, but her flat stare dragged the admission from him. "I need a few plants from Rosa's," he confessed, his voice breaking a bit as he found a basket of carrots in front of him immediately worthy of his entire attention.

"Oh, then we can go there next," Priscilla responded, the suspicion in her voice making it less of a suggestion than a statement. Roger swallowed uncomfortably, remembering all too well the proposal Rosa had made one of the last times he had visited her.

Soon, the pair presented an assortment of vegetables to the green-haired goblin grocer, who took no time in stacking them neatly in a basket, moving with practiced efficiency. As she placed the carrots and celery, her eyes lit up. "Ah, let me guess: making a mirepoix for a meat dish?" She held a hand to her small chest. "I always think it gives just the right flavor to the mix, but I'm biased."

"Sounds to me like someone is studying to be a sous chef," Roger teased, sharing a knowing glance with Priscilla. Mori didn't deny it, preening under their looks.

"They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Unless the man is a cook, I guess. Then it's, like, other people's stomachs?" Mori paused, looking extremely confused. "Yeah, that's it."

"Well, thanks, Mori. Good luck with him," Roger offered, placing the coins in front of Mori and taking up the basket of vegetables. The goblin waved at them enthusiastically, and Priscilla waved back, albeit in a less whole-armed fashion.

"So," Roger started, glancing around himself to get his bearings, "We might as well go to Rosa's next." He hid his gulp, swallowing 'and get it over with,' before he could utter it. "We can come back for lunch afterwards." He hoped that would give his delivery enough time to arrive; that had been the original justification for this mutual outing, though he felt it had changed into something else already.

Their path sent them down several winding streets, until they found the main causeway headed for the north exit to the town, a road that was more familiar to Priscilla. As they walked, she pointed out the distant encampment being used by Lacerta's mercenaries, and she showed him places she had mentioned in her daily stories to him. There was something atypical about this stroll, something that loosened both of their tongues, or perhaps it was the events of the previous evening. In any case, Roger found himself talking to her openly, more comfortably than he had with anyone in years aside from Lacerta and Mithal.

Once they made their way clear of the city, he noticed her swinging her right hand close to him, and noticed she had shifted the box of vials to her left arm, an absolutely-innocent expression on her face. Smiling, and without pausing in their conversation, he moved the vegetables to his right hand, leaving his left at his side. A moment more, and their hands brushed, and again, this time their fingers intertwining as they unconsciously matched their paces together.

From there, as they made their way up the gradual incline towards the looming, shadowed forest, their topic changed to things more personal to them both. Roger started by discussing his life back in the barrier city; how growing up in a noble family had given him opportunities to enjoy things the poorer people never would, but also led to the fact that he was almost invisible to his parents and older brothers, a mere result of the Church encouraging the believers to have more children. He told her of his time in school, and of his strange friendship with the young eccentric inventor Valerian Metius, and of his relationship with his closest brother Richard, who had been only a year older than him. He told her of how his parents had died, and the change in the way his eldest brothers had treated him and Richard, which is what had led to his self-imposed exile. Throughout it, Priscilla asked him to explain some things she didn't understand, but she allowed him to direct the conversation, listening intently and with compassion.

One topic in particular drew her interest. "So, you said you left the city when your oldest brothers took over the estate. What ever happened to the brother you got along with, Richard?"

Roger paused for a long moment. "Richard was a lot like me: he preferred reading to roughhousing, and he thought our older brothers were witless thugs. The big difference was that Richard was… ambitious. He wanted to prove himself better than them, and he wanted power. The only way for a third son to get that is through the Church. He could have joined the clergy, but he was never that big on scriptures or sermons. So, that left the Holy Orders. When I spoke to him last, he had just been accepted as a page to one of them, though he didn't say which." A moment passed as Roger looked off into the distance, as if trying to perceive his brother's well-being. "I hope he is doing well."

After he lapsed into silence, having brought his chronology to his arrival in Goslar and the mountainside meeting that had brought them together, Priscilla took her turn. She told him about life in her original tribe, far away in mountains less settled than those near Goslar. As a monster, the majority of the tribe were women, with the few men that lived there serving as communal mates to whole groups of orcs. The younger women tended to be half-sisters, and their mothers were very proactive in raising them and valued them greatly, though they encouraged roughness in play and teaching. In time, they tended to associate more with their sisters, forming social groups that tended to be stratified by strength. Priscilla had been one of the strongest of her sisters, and the shrewdest, so she was a leader of their age group. However, once she and her sisters had reached adolescence, they had been encouraged to move on and seek a new place to settle, to find a man of their own as mate and to claim a hunting ground. Their departure had been influenced by the arrival of a young high orc, a peer to Priscilla and the others, and that high orc had taken command of their group.

Roger stopped as he heard that, facing Priscilla directly. "Why was she leader? Weren't you the strongest?"

Priscilla's smile was sad. "She was a high orc. Following her just made sense. And she was strong, really insanely strong. Just not…" She sighed, and irritation tightened her face. "Berala was stupid, and stubborn, and a bully. I couldn't stand her."

There was something in her voice that gave Roger pause, something that reminded him of the fights he had once had with Richard. "She sounds like a sister as much as the others." Priscilla nodded at that, a conflicted smile tugging at her lips.

As they made their way into the forest, Priscilla continued. After Berala had come to lead their group, they had wandered, until they heard of a mining town nearby that was fairly rich. They had hoped to set up shop there, to raid caravans coming out of the town and to snatch up a man to serve as their tribe's mate, but they had been foiled more often than not by the guards the town used. Only foolhardy merchants unable to afford guards – like him – had been easy enough targets for them. In time, they had accumulated a great deal of wealth, but had only managed to capture monster merchants, or older married men, and the tribe began to grow restless, craving the mate they had been promised.

"And I told them that, if they followed me instead of boarheaded Berala, I would get a man for them." Priscilla sighed, shaking her head in exasperation at herself. "Berala took it personally, and I was serious, so we handled it with a duel. I lost. I was drinking at the time, and a little sloppy, maybe overconfident…"

Roger directed a flat stare in her direction. "I can't possibly imagine that."

"It was a close fight, at least." Priscilla shrugged resignedly. "Berala knew she couldn't have a second-in-command that had stood up to her like that, so she banished me. I had grown up in a big community, had always had someone to watch my back, so… I didn't do well on my own." She swallowed, her throat tight. "It wasn't a good time for me. But then you showed up, and here we are." She smiled in his direction, the sunlight piercing through the clouds of her remembered depression. He returned the expression, squeezing her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles, and she leaned against him a little as they paused at the edge of a tight ring of trees.

The pair stared at each other for a long moment, hesitant to step away from the closeness they felt at just that moment. Roger swallowed, feeling a heat burning within himself, and shifted his stance, his pants suddenly feeling uncomfortably tight as a pink haze began to settle on his vision. Not thinking, he leaned forward, his eyes on Priscilla's lips-

"What is that smell?" Priscilla demanded, turning her head to look at the trees nearby, utterly unaware of what Roger had just been about to do. She released his hand and stepped away, sniffing loudly as she followed the trail of the fragrance deeper into the grove next to them, leaning Roger staggering as he came back to his senses. As he did, his stomach began to tie itself in knots as he realized the flaw in his plan: every time he had visited Rosa, mentioning Priscilla had served to fend off the alraune's advances. He had not wanted to bring Priscilla here because he did not know how Rosa would react now, but he had a few ideas, and not many of them ended well for him.

He entered the grove just in time to see Rosa emerge from her flower, Priscilla standing close to the immense bud, her stance implying battle more than civil introduction. As the petals descended, Rosa emerged with a toss of her mint green hair, standing upright defiantly in front of Priscilla, her posture revealing absolutely everything. She placed one hand on her hip, her bared chest thrust forward imperiously and her violet eyes gleaming in the sunlight. Priscilla glanced back to find Roger looking away with a florescent blush, and her eyes narrowed at the alraune.

"So," the alraune purred, her eyes dancing over Priscilla's form, one predator taking measure of another. "You must be Priscilla, the piggy princess herself."

"And you are naked, and need to fix that."

"Is that so? Would you be willing to give me your clothes, then?" Rosa's eyes flicked to Roger. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind at all."

Priscilla's eyes narrowed. She instinctively knew a dangerous opponent when she saw one. "Sorry, no. Listen, we're here to pick up something, and then we'll leave, alright?"

Rosa didn't respond at first. Instead, the flower that she was a part of leaned forward, bringing her closer to Priscilla, and Rosa leaned in further, until she was nearly face to face with the orc. "Oh, my dear, I know exactly what you need. But since you insist…" Priscilla and Roger noticed a couple of vines at the edge of the ring of trees holding bundles of flowers aloft, the supplies Roger had come to purchase, but their eyes widened as the vines snapped like whips, flinging the precious bouquets beyond the grove. "Oh, clumsy me; would you be a darling and fetch those, Roger?" Rosa's eyes glowed as she stared unwaveringly into Priscilla's. "We're just going to have a little girl chat, alright?"

From the edge of the grove, Roger shook his head. "Listen, I don't want you two to hurt each other-" A vine interrupted him by coiling around his shoulders, lifting him from the ground just enough to spin him to face the opposite direction, before releasing him and shoving in the direction of the exit. Roger sighed and glanced back, finding the girls were still locked on each other, unwilling to blink. Resigning himself, he hastened out of the grove, praying both girls would be there when he got back.

The second Roger was gone from sight, Rosa's eyes narrowed. "I want him."

Priscilla was just as blunt, crossing her arms before her chest. "No."

"Oh, my," Rosa said, recoiling in mock surprise. "Imagine, an orc unwilling to share. What has the world come to?"

"He's not even mine to share." Priscilla glowered at the alraune, unwilling to be shaken.

"Please." Rosa laughed, the light sound like birdsong echoing in the forest. "He will be, darling. And I am okay with that. But that does not change what I said."

Priscilla frowned, feeling as if she was being pushed back somehow, afraid the implied compliment had been a feint for an attack yet to come. "Even if he was, that's his decision."

Rosa didn't reply immediately, instead raising a moss-colored eyebrow. "A man like Roger is like pollen: he can only drift in the wind and hope he finds the destination he seeks. Sometimes, it's much more efficient to use… a honey bee, say, to get him to where he needs to be."

"A honey bee?" Entomology was not Priscilla's strong suit, and floral metaphors were, so far, also lost on her.

"He needs a push, dear, before he can make any decision. A decision for you, or for me." Rosa smiled, the expression less hostile than before, as if she could sense her words softening Priscilla's defenses, like roots penetrating dense soil. "And I could give you just what you need for that push." Another vine lifted from behind the alraune, this one holding something very different: a thin, capped carafe nearly-full of a glistening golden fluid that oozed slowly in the snake-like grip of the vine. "Alraune nectar is a natural aphrodisiac. Roger is quite weak to my pollen; my nectar would leave only one need on his mind, and that need could be you, if you were the one to serve it to him. A sip, or just a little dribbled on his skin, and his aching lust will not end until he is spent inside you. Maybe not even then."

Priscilla's eyes tracked the wavering vessel like a rodent hypnotized by a dancing cobra. She tore her gaze away, however, to focus back on Rosa. "If you know Roger is weak to your pollen, then why haven't you given him the push he needs for yourself?"

Rosa's expression was as unguarded as her own emerald flesh: a soft, sad smile. "I know better than to stand in the way of love. I am content to wait my turn, instead."

Priscilla looked away from Rosa, a dark cloud emerging to overshadow her heart. She remembered the nights she spent worrying that Roger would soon evict her from his life. She wasn't ready to believe he loved her. Not yet. But, he might, if… Her eyes darted back to the vessel of nectar.

"What do you want from me, then?" she asked, her voice coarse.

Rosa's eyes widened in triumph, and she grinned deviously at the orc. "Why, my dear, there is only one little thing I will need, when the time comes." She leaned closer, whispering two words into Priscilla's ear. With her request made, she leaned back, a waiting smile on her lips, prepared to hear her rival's response. Priscilla met that gaze, her breath held as she considered the alraune's offer.

A moment later, Roger burst into the grove, panting as he clutched the bundles of plants Rosa had sent flying into the forest. He was covered in stickle-burrs, and scratched from what he had imagined to be a dryad's clutching grasp but was more likely just a stubborn root, but he had finally found the prizes he had sought. To his immense relief, he spied both girls, now standing apart from each other, their expressions unreadable. "Was that really necessary, Rosa?" he demanded, his chest heaving for breath.

"My apologies, dearest," Rosa replied, covering her breasts lightly with her hands. "I simply slipped. But, at the least, it gave me a moment to get to know your friend much better." She smiled down at Priscilla, who did not reply, mutely striding to Roger's side. "I will see you soon, I hope." She gave Roger a gentle wave, swaying her hips and biting her lip as she did so, leaving her chest bare once more until the petals of her flower curled back heavenward. The last Roger saw of her was the haunting smile on her lips as she stretched, raising her arms above her head as the petals embraced her, as if she were seeking to take hold of the sun.

"Sorry," Roger apologized as he led Priscilla from the grove, having left Rosa's payment sitting on the ground inside the ring of trees. "I wish that I could say that she isn't always like that, but…" He shrugged helplessly. "I've learned to keep a safe distance."

"Good idea," Priscilla mumbled, her eyes on the path in front of her. Her quiet was a marked contrast to their earlier conversation, and it drew a worried frown to Roger's face. He watched her for a moment as they walked, before returning his eyes to the path ahead. Whatever Rosa had said to her, he decided, he could deal with later.

"So, want to get something to eat?" he prompted Priscilla as they neared the edge of the forest. To his relief, she looked back to him with a broad smile, and it felt to him like the sun had emerged after a storm.

"That sounds really good," she replied, and, a moment later, when his hand brushed against hers, she held his hand once more, drawing strength from his touch, and from the way that their shoulders would brush together as they walked.

It distracted her from the weight of the vessel of alraune nectar she carried strapped to her side opposite Roger, hidden from view.

 **Author's Note:** With the fifth chapter of this tale posted, we are beyond the halfway point in many ways. I currently have most of chapter 8 finished, and hope to put the proverbial bow on it tonight. Chapter 9 will either be very large, or will need to be split in half; I am yet to make up my mind on that regard. I do intend to post the sixth chapter on Tuesday, assuming I am given the chance. I warn you all that said chapter is a tad more explicit in nature than those previous, so consider yourself forewarned.

Once again, I appreciate those of you who have commented: great thanks for your kind words GioMM (both here and on TFT, unless I am mistaken), and for the same and for answering my question, Anzer'ke. The feedback I have been getting recently has kept me hammering at the keys, and should my weekend prove productive, I even dream of finishing this tale by next week's end...

But, fresh off of an exhausting week of counseling and corralling students, and selling concessions, I believe I need something else for now. Sleep...

~Wynn Pendragon


	6. Friends

**(Explicit content ahead)  
**

The lunch crowd had departed, but a few regulars lingered within the tavern, the general hubbub dying down into quiet conversation. Mithal Tirel sighed as he rested against the wall just inside his kitchen, pulling away his white cap to dab at his forehead with an old rag. The day had been busy so far, but he had been disappointed by one table that had remained empty all morning. That small table sat off to the side, marked by a placard that read 'RESERVED,' but especially notable for the vase in the center that held a single long-stemmed rose, accompanied by twin candles. Such had not been a customer's request, but his own flourish, stemming from a conversation he had had the previous day.

"Boss!" called a hissed whisper, the door to his kitchen swinging open only enough to permit entrance for a blond-haired goblin head. Meri beamed at him eagerly. "They're here!"

Mithal immediately straightened from his slump. He wiped his forehead once more before replacing his cap, and took a moment to compose himself, adjusting his clothing and folding a clean towel over his arm. He felt an unfamiliar excitement as he did so, almost as if he was rehearsing for a greater role, but also due to the impending meeting he was to have with his friend's 'roommate.' After all, he thought with a smirk, it was rare that he had an opportunity to get one up on his crafty chemist friend.

He emerged from the kitchen with head held high, his step a subtle blend of a soldier's cadence and a dancer's grace. Sweeping into the tavern's common room, he walked directly to the table where his friend had been seated by Meri, who herself was curtsying to the couple as she left to retrieve their drinks. Mithal was conscious of the fact many of the eyes in the tavern were upon him, but disregarded their smiles; let them see what they could expect from a restaurant with class. He suspected, anyways, that their grins were more at Roger's obvious discomfort than his own antics.

"Good evening, lady, sir," Mithal greeted them with all of the poise of the finest maître d' he had known back in his homeland. "What might I interest you in this day?"

The orc was beholding him with a broad smile, thrilled by the treatment they were receiving, while Roger's head was hanging, though that still failed to hide his blush. "Mithal, really?" was all the chemist could manage.

"I beg your pardon, good sir; is aught amiss?" Mithal ask with all of the haughtiest humility he could manage. "We here at the," he paused, struggling with actual disgust despite his act, "Randy Stallion Tavern would be simply aghast to not serve you to our greatest capacity."

Roger sighed, accepting Mithal's behavior as his just due for all the times he had sold his culinary friend out for free drinks. "Priscilla, meet Mithal Tirel, an exceptional chef, a good friend, and a bad actor." He smirked up at Mithal, who harrumph'ed and looked away. "Mithal, meet Priscilla, my roommate."

"Ah, my lady, Roger has spoken so much of you, but he failed to capture an iota of your beauty," Mithal said, bowing to take Priscilla's hand and left her knuckles to his lips. She smiled shyly at that, then glanced at Roger with a proud glow. Roger laughed, but he also noted the blond goblin watching Mithal with a jealous pout, and knew full well there would be a handful of goblins expecting the same genteel treatment later on. That brought him some sadistic relief, at the least.

"Now, if I may, what may we prepare for your meal?" Mithal prompted, glancing to Roger, giving him an opportunity to order for his date.

"I'll have the usual," Roger replied, denying the bait. He motioned to Priscilla, who looked suddenly self-conscious, glancing around for a hint to what she should order.

"I'll have the boar…" she suggested meekly. Mithal nodded stoically, his expression sculpted in stone, though cracks showed in his faltering smile.

"Treat him like you were asking me to make something for dinner at home," Roger prompted, his eyebrow raised.

"Oh! In that case, how about boar with rich mushroom gravy, with sautéed greens on the side?" Priscilla prompted, more comfortable with such a familiar situation.

A warmth glowed in Mithal's heart, melting his snooty façade for just a moment as he smiled gratefully down at her. Finally, someone aside from his friend that ordered something more complex than meat with or without the caress of flame. "I have decided," he stated, his throat thick, "that you have my blessing. You can keep Roger."

"Mithal!" scolded the man in question, while Priscilla gave him a brilliant smile in thanks.

The chef quickly swept himself back towards the kitchen, determination glowing in his eyes, eager to rise to an actual challenge. This left Roger and Priscilla by themselves at the table, staring awkwardly at each across the glow of the candles, a dancing light that seemed to bring a glow to Priscilla's eyes, at least to Roger's gaze. The other tavern-goers returned to their own conversations, though occasionally slipped surreptitious glances at the couple, finding Roger and Priscilla's blushing awkwardness to be the perfect romantic accompaniment to their own repast.

"I really feel like I've spent the entire day apologizing for every single person I know," Roger started, shaking his head in embarrassment, "but Mithal is not usually like this."

"I think he's charming," Priscilla responded. "I see why you are friends. He already reminds me a lot of you." When Roger replied only with a single raised eyebrow, she smiled. "You have the same sense of humor, certainly."

"Yeah, well, you better believe I'm going to be giving a few goblins the best love advice ever after this fiasco. I'll give them the key to his house, if I have to." From four tables away, a blond head swiftly turned in his direction, sharp goblin ears perked.

"Well, this is just making me wonder about introducing you to my friends," Priscilla admitted, and they both laughed. "Bronda will like you, I know. I just worry about Kana…"

"Oh? Why is that?"

Priscilla froze in place as she heard the familiar, alcohol-tinged voice behind her, and a heavy green hand fell on her shoulder. She glanced at it, then followed the thickly-muscled arm up to the shoulder and then up to the leering face. She swallowed audibly as she discovered the ogre looming over her, watching as Kana's eyes met hers, then moved over to Roger. "No reason," Priscilla replied in a small voice.

"That's what I thought! It's not like I'm going to eat him up or anything," Kana guffawed, the sound drowning out all other conversation for several seconds. "Actually, about that. Chemist, how about you come over and have a chat with me and Lacy while you are waiting on your food? Priss here can catch up with those goblin girls that just came in; I know she knows the orange one." The ogre ignored the way Priscilla was minutely shaking her head 'no' at this suggestion, and Roger was too overawed by Kana to notice. He followed Kana's jutting thumb back to a table in one of the tavern's corners, where the lizardwoman was sitting at her own plate, waving a salute to him. He returned the gesture before nodding to Kana.

"Sure, if Priscilla doesn't mind," he said, checking her expression.

"I don't th-" Kana's hand tightened on the orc's shoulder. "I don't mind," Priscilla said, sighing in resignation. When Roger asked if she was certain, she only nodded, plastering on a smile as she stood from the table, cold dread draining into her stomach like a thawing glacier. She headed for a table nearby, where three familiar goblin girls were scaling up oversized stools, hoping that her ogre friend wouldn't say anything too terrifyingly embarrassing.

Roger in turn made his way to the small table being shared by the ogre and lizardman. He noticed that, while Lacerta had several small dishes with gnawed bones atop them, Kana's place was clear, aside from a collection of drained mugs and cups. He sat down stiffly; Lacerta was a comfortable face, but he had only heard stories from Priscilla about Kana, and had only just met her. He felt odd pressure to make certain that the ogre liked him, so he extended his hand genially. "Nice to meet you. I'm Roger Miralis. Priscilla has-" The ogre reached out to take his hand into her oversized one, and the pressure of her grip reorganized the structure of the bones of his hand and wrist with an audible grinding, "told me… so much about… you." Choking back a whimper, he pulled his injured limb from her grasp, and she chuckled at him in a manner he hoped was friendly.

"Oh, don't worry, she's told me all about you, too. I feel like I already know you." The ogre's smile bared her incisors, which looked ready to rend flesh. "'Course, that's not what we brought you here to discuss."

"Oh? Then what's that?" Roger asked, glancing between the two women, who shared looks of their own. Kana motioned to Lacerta, yielding the right to handle this difficult topic to her friend.

"Sorry, Roger, I didn't know that Kana was friends with Priscilla, but she and I go way back. I was the one that convinced her to give up the brigand life and become a caravan guard," Lacerta explained, to which the ogre shrugged.

"One way or another, I get their money. I just get paid whether I fight or not, this way," she explained bluntly.

"So, when we were catching up a few days ago, we realized that we both knew Priscilla. That's when we shared some… concerns we have about your relationship with Priss." Lacerta shrugged, an apology in her gaze.

"Relationship? Wait, we don't-" Roger cut off as Kana leaned closer to him, the ogre staring directly into his eyes as she loomed nearer to his face. He swallowed his words, and the ogre leaned back, pleased at his obedience.

"Listen, from our talks I know you realize that the Church, and the whole civilization you came from, told you a lot of lies about monsters. You aren't like them; you haven't been from the day I met you." Lacerta's cheeks flushed slightly. "You see us as people, not creatures. Still… there are some things you maybe should still hold on to from what they taught you." Compassionately, she reached out a hand, resting it on his shoulder.

Roger was confused, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"She's saying that your Church fed you a lot of crap, but some of it was crappy truth," Kana explained, unhelpfully.

Lacerta sighed, glancing disapprovingly at her inebriated friend. "What I mean is, some monsters still have traditions and beliefs that come from the days of the Demon Lord, just… changed, like our bodies. Orcs especially." Seeing she had Roger's rapt attention, she pressed on. "Orcs are big on dominance. When they find a man, they conquer him, or he conquers them. If they take him, then they use him however they want. Sometimes the whole tribe does."

Roger swallowed, nodding. "She told me about that."

"Well, if he conquers her, then she becomes… servile. Devoted. Practically a willing slave, eager for his approval. She changes who she is." Lacerta spread her hands, presenting the two options to him. "That's how they view mating. Enslave, or be a slave."

"And you better believe she is stronger than you," Kana rumbled, lifting the sole full cup from the table and emptying it in a long series of gulps.

At this, Roger nodded. For just a moment, he was back on that mountainside, armed with nothing more than a glorified baton, knowing he was about to be taken no matter what he did. Now, he couldn't fight Priscilla, even if he was strong enough to. He couldn't hurt her, but… "Isn't there a third option?" he demanded.

Lacerta shrugged, but Kana was more definite. "Listen, boy. You can take the orc out of the tribe, but you can't take the orc out of the orc." She glanced up, considering her words, before nodding as punctuation.

"I've never met an orc that was different," Lacerta admitted. "And I know she has struggled to hold her instincts in check. She's told me that."

"Yeah, well, I know Priscilla. She would never hurt me-"

"Hurting isn't the problem."

"And I am going to have faith in her." Roger stood from the table, his face revealing his determination. "Thank you both for the warning; I understand her a little better now. But I believe she is more than that." He nodded to Lacerta before turning to Kana. "It was nice meeting you."

"Yeah, nice knowing you," Kana said apathetically, checking the various mugs for any remaining dregs.

Lacerta watched him return to his table, and then saw Priscilla join him a moment later. The lizardwoman watched them with a melancholy smile, interrupted when the ogre across from her shook her head. "You're too nice, Lacy," Kana mumbled.

The mercenary frowned at her drinking companion. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." Kana shook her head, reaching a hand out to snatch a foaming mug from the tray the goblin waitress carried too close to their table. Draining it in an instant, she slammed it down onto the table. "I'll just never understand love."

Lacerta's sputtered response was all but lost in the hubbub as the goblin girls across the tavern raised their mugs with a loud cheer, as Mithal returned to the table carrying a tray aloft with Priscilla and Roger's meals, as the people of Goslar laughed and shouted and savored their lives.

* * *

A loud belch preceded Roger and Priscilla as they entered their shared home. Priscilla blushed as Roger held the door for her, covering her mouth.

"That was amazing," Roger laughed, rubbing his own stomach.

"What, the food, or me burping?" Priscilla asked, trying to hide her face behind her hand despite her smile.

"Well, both, but the food was what I meant," Roger explained with a chuckle. "Mithal was showing off for you, especially with the fancy act he put on."

"You said he wanted to start a restaurant?"

"Yeah, he has plans to start a fancier diner once he gets the money. He's getting closer, I think," Roger explained, placing the vegetables on a counter to the side. He glanced subtly to the main counter, finding a sizable crate atop it. He was thankful they had stayed out until his delivery had arrived, but still he wanted to distract Priscilla from it for just a moment more. "I've been overpaying when I go, and I think the goblin sisters have been leaving extra each day for Meri to sneak into his collection."

"Yeah, they invited me to join them sometime," she mentioned. "If you- wait, what's that over there?"

Roger's smile was hidden, since his back was to her. "Oh, just a little something I ordered. Do you care to unpack it for me?"

He heard her walk towards the crate as he began pulling the glassware from the box she had placed next to the vegetables, stealthily observing her from the corner of his eyes. "Wait, that marking is from Bronda's Bladeworks. What did you order from there?" She pried at the top of the crate, and it finally yielded with a series of cracks, revealing the gleam of metal packed in hay. "Why did you order armor?" She lifted each piece from the crate, inspecting them as she did so. She organized them as she went: gloves, bracers, a pauldron, legguards, a light helmet, and lastly a cuirass. Realizing there was still something within the crate, she pulled forth a sword within a leather scabbard. She pulled it from its sheath, marveling at the gleaming blade under its coating of viscous oil. The crossguard was emblazoned, like each of the pieces of armor, with a symbol: a squat circle bisected with a line, a shape that was oddly reminiscent of a pig's snout.

"I hope you don't mind the marking. It was on the armor you were wearing when we met, so I thought it meant something special to you," Roger explained softly.

"What? I- wait, is this for me?" Priscilla looked to him, with tears in her eyes. "Did you have Bronda make all this for me?" She clutched the scabbard to her chest tightly, squeezing it with shaking hands.

"Yeah. Lacerta said your training was almost complete, and that she would prepare a letter of commendation for you to any mercenary band you would want to join. If you decided to do that, I wanted you to have something to protect you, even if I'm not there to bind your wounds." Roger turned his gaze downward with a sad smile, missing the concern that was flaring to life in Priscilla's eyes. "That's why I wanted you to study with Lacerta. So you could go wherever you wanted, do whatever you decided… I wanted to give you that freedom."

Priscilla struggled to swallow, fought to breathe. She felt like, in the span of a single beat of her heart, her world had gone from the greatest heights, only to plummet deep into a gaping crevice. It was if the floor was no longer under her feet. His words were a bellows to the dark flames that had been eating at her, and she suddenly viewed the implications of the past day in a new light. Her training, his gift, the meal with Mithal; it had all been a farewell gift. He was saying that he wouldn't be there for her, because he meant for her to leave. This was it, her eviction, the moment she had been afraid of ever since the day she had first met him.

A tear dropped from her face, followed soon by others. "I understand."

"This way, you won't need anyone like Berala. You won't have to worry about not having a tribe. You will always have friends that have your back, like me." Priscilla mutely nodded, the words and her false hopes stinging like a lash. "I know of a few different companies that could hire you, jobs close by - just if you wanted - so you could settle down without having to worry… Priscilla, are you crying?"

She shook her head, but the twin stream of tears defied her denial. Still she clutched to the sword, so very thankful for it, so thankful for everything he had given her, so thankful for him, so desperate not to lose him. Panicked, Roger stepped closer, lifting her face to look at him, his confusion and concern warring for supremacy. "What did I do?" he asked, and she retreated back against the counter, sniffling, still cradling the sword in her arms, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, what did I say?" he pleaded, pursuing closer.

"I'll pack my things," she managed between sobs. "Thank you for everything you've given me. I r-really appreciate it, and I won't for-forget you, and…"

His heart in his throat, Roger wondered if he had missed something very important. His mind raced as he played back through his last words, trying to find anything he had said that would have caused such a reaction from her.

"I'll look for a new place to live. Bronda would let me sleep at her forge, for a while at least," she said, trying to compose herself. Any control she gained was mirrored by that Roger was quickly losing.

"Why? Why are you leaving?" Roger tried to get her to meet his eyes, but she looked away, and his chest clenched violently. "I don't want you to leave!"

This drew her gaze back. "What?"

"This – none of this – was about you leaving. I don't want that." Swallowing, Roger braced himself, realizing his sudden fears were shoving a dangerous truth to his lips. "I don't want you to ever leave. I want you to stay with me."

Her eyes widened, the last tears rolling free, late arrivals to a sudden shift. "What are you saying?" she asked, not willing to believe what she was hearing after the rapid reversal she had just gone through, not able to hope she was right.

Roger steeled himself. He knew he stood at the edge of a precipice, and his next words would not be something he could take back. "I love you, and I want you to stay with me, wherever we go." She didn't reply, staring at him with wide eyes as she mutely shifted her grip on the scabbarded sword, setting it down beside the armor. He couldn't bear the silence, so he continued. "I wanted you to be able to get a job doing something you like and settle down here. I didn't want you to go unless that's what you wanted, and even then I knew it would hurt, but I wanted you to be happy. I want you beside me; that's all I've thought for a while now."

Priscilla didn't say anything in return. She didn't have to.

Roger fell back against the counter behind him as Priscilla collided with him, her lips slamming into his as her arms darted under his own, pulling him in closer. Roger's eyes were wide, but the feeling of her against him was such a balm that he closed them in relief and pleasure. Their first kiss was a heavy, sloppy affair, neither of them being well-versed in the art but substituting passion for experience. It was also not over quickly, both of them completely lost in the feeling of skin on skin, the smells and the warmth and the faint feeling of a pounding heart racing with theirs. It ended with paired gasps as they pulled back, both chests heaving for air as they stared into each other's eyes for just long enough to minimally satisfy their burning lungs, before pressing back in for even more.

Their kisses continued for long minutes as their hands began to explore places they had only dreamed of touching. As Roger's hand cupped her lower back, his other hand was pleasantly tangled in her hair. She, too, held the back of his head, pressing his lips against hers, while her other hand explored the shifting muscles of his upper body before sliding lower, finally stopping to grip his rear in a way that brought livid color to both their cheeks, though hers was more from desire than embarrassment. Roger shifted uncomfortably, increasingly conscious of a dilemma that was growing below his belt, but Priscilla was pressed as tightly to him there as above, and did not fail to notice his arousal, her kisses becoming so passionate that their teeth clicked, yet they continued without concern. As Roger's hand roamed from her lower back, he drifted close to her arm, yet shied away from the destination he had in mind. A quiet, insistent, needy moan from her changed its course, and he slid his fingers under her arm to her front, brushing against her breast, coming around far enough for him to cup it firmly, squeezing the soft flesh between his fingers, marveling at the firmness.

She broke from their kiss at that feeling, panting as she moved her face to his neck. "Yes, yes… harder," she pleaded, her lips pressing against his neck firmly. He complied eagerly, lifting and feeling and caressing, his thumb finding the hardening nub and circling around it hungrily. They both gasped at that, her from the sensitivity of her nipple, him from the feeling of her teeth nipping at the skin at the boundary between neck and shoulder. Enthralled with the softness of her breast, just as he had been at their first meeting, Roger drew his other hand to his new favorite place, and Priscilla leaned back to let him enjoy his exploration of her breasts.

It took only a moment of that for Priscilla to interrupt him with a ragged warning. "Roger, I'm sorry," she panted, swallowing. "I'm trying really hard, so hard, not to…" She trailed off, but he could read what she meant by the lust in her eyes, by the way she was shaking. He could tell she was holding back for his sake, but her control was about to break, and when it did it would be as powerful as a dam bursting, as sudden as a balloon popping. He had to make a decision, _now_.

He grabbed her hand, nodding as much to himself as to her. He was in over his head, but he had no intention of stopping; he needed this as much as she did. "Let's go upstairs."

The look of gratitude she gave him was on the verge of tears, and it was engraved in his mind as he climbed the stairs with her, his heart drumming powerfully and rapidly. When they reached their bedroom, he paused, glancing to his bed, not certain where to go from here. She made that decision for him, however, pushing him against the wall across from his bed. She kissed him again, hungrily, as her hand tore at the laces to his shirt, and he helped her remove it. He reached to do the same for her, but she had other things in mind, reaching for the belt that bound his pants. He shivered as she kissed her way down his chest, stopping only to nibble at one sensitive nub, before resuming her southward trail, yanking on his pants. They fell unceremoniously, his member springing free, and he blushed at the suddenness of the feeling of air against his most sensitive skin.

The look she gave his rod was ravenous, and she ran her tongue across her lips, her nostrils flaring with desire. Before he could speak, she lunged forward, devouring half of his length in an instant. The shock of warmth and wetness made Roger lean his head back against the wall, and a groan echoed from the depths of his chest as she began to move back and forth, her lips gripping his shaft in a stroke that made his knees feel weak. He reached down, his hands brushing her floppy ears before resting on either side of her head, holding on to her more for support than guidance; that, she had well in hand. For just a moment, lost in the haze of pleasure, he wondered if she had learned how to do this from watching her elders attacking their mate back in her first home, but she wrenched him back to the here and now with a loud 'pop' of suction as she pulled him from her mouth. Instead, she began attacking him with long, broad strokes of her tongue, slathering him with moisture, base to tip and back again, mixed in with sucking kisses. She aimed lower, her tongue playing with his stones, before beginning a swift trek higher, the tip of her tongue tracing the line on the underside all the way to the base of its head. He flinched at the sensitivity of that spot, and, glancing down, he could see the sadistic smile she wore, her tongue flicking rapidly against that target. That sweet torture made him moan again with a shudder, that involuntary movement tensing him just as she dove back down onto him.

It didn't take overlong for him, unaccustomed to such pleasure, to feel a pressure building inside him, a lightness in his head that stole away his thoughts. "Priss, I'm about to… to…" His words broke apart into a moan as pleasure exploded from him. He heard her make a sound, and she recoiled, but almost immediately attacked him once more, even more greedily. Considering such, however, was beyond him, until his world faded back into existence, and he panted as he looked down at her. She took her time in stopping, still sucking on his softening member, glancing up at him with satisfaction burning in her eyes. Finally she pulled him gently from her mouth, glancing at his reduced self with a smile as she swallowed audibly, wiping a smear of escaped fluid from her lips.

"That's the first time you've called me that," she noted, climbing back to her feet.

"Sorry… I heard your friends call you that, and-"

She interrupted him with a kiss. "No, I like it." She pulled back, glancing to the bed. She reached out to take him by the hand and lead him in that direction, but was surprised to feel his hand on her shoulder instead as he pulled her back towards the wall. He still remembered Lacerta's words about her orcish instincts, and he knew instinctively that he had a fine line to walk. As much as she was holding back her dominating nature, it was time for him to carry some of that weight as well.

She blinked in surprise as she found herself pushed against the wall, Roger in front of her, mischief and determination in his eyes. "Let me return the favor," he demanded, and with a shiver she nodded, the greedy fires burning within her changing to a different sort of anticipation. She helped him remove her tunic, amused by his hasty fumbling as much as she found it adorable. Her superior attitude fell away, however, as he began to bombard her breasts with kisses, his hands holding her and caressing and squeezing, everywhere at once, just as she gasped at the feeling of his tongue flicking against her nipple. She writhed against the wall as his tongue ran laps around that sensitive bud before he pulled back, assaulting its twin by sucking it roughly into his mouth, pulling back slightly to tug on it. She was so enraptured by his oral assault that she hardly noticed his hands travelling lower, working to loosen the rest of her attire. She blushed, however, as she felt him pull it down to her ankles, but she stepped out of it, leaving herself completely bare before him.

He continued his work on her breasts for a moment longer as his hands roamed her thighs, and without thinking she shifted her stance, spreading her legs somewhat to encourage exploration closer to her core. He didn't comply, though she could hardly complain; instead, his kisses meandered lower, across her belly, as he knelt before her.

Roger choked back feelings of unpreparedness as he descended. All the information he had for what he intended next had come from his elder brothers, who had boasted frequently about their sexual conquests, and had held that over their younger siblings as another way of humiliating them. Still, he was encouraged by Priscilla's desperate reaction, her hips lurching forward as he drew nearer to his destination. Her musky scent was thick in his lungs, and he felt his lower self stirring to life once more as he kissed his way across the thin patch of hair above her slit. Before he could continue, she nudged him to scoot back, and he complied, giving her space to lower herself slightly, granting him better access. With that, he dove in, kissing her lower lips everywhere, trying to listen for her reactions to guide him. In all, those were decidedly positive, especially when he extended his tongue and parted her lips, lapping higher and higher until she gripped his head, pulling him to one sensitive spot. As he flicked his tongue against that nub, he could feel her quivering, and she began grinding her body against his lips, his tongue licking madly as he listened to her delicious cries. Her hands tangled more tightly in his hair as she clung to him for dear life, and he did not relent, instead guiding one of his hands up her thigh, reinforcements for the tongue pounding at her clit. Above him, her eyes shot open as she felt one of his fingers penetrate her, that beloved digit only going a short distance inside before retreating, making its stop-and-go way deeper and deeper into her. She gasped as it fled completely, only to be replaced by his tongue, his mouth pressed hard against her as he forced it as far into her as he could manage, before returning a moment later to her clit, his finger resuming its own exploration.

Priscilla endured her delectable torture only a short while longer, though it felt like an eternity of pleasure to her. Finally, she released Roger's head, and he looked up to her, seeing the plea in her eyes as he pulled back, his lips and chin wet with her juices. "Please," she gasped, looking to the bed. Swallowing, he nodded, climbing back to his feet, his member bobbing obscenely towards her, restored fully to its earlier hardness.

Roger led her to the bed, but glanced to her, not certain how she wanted to proceed. He saw the confident grin returning to her face, and she pushed him to lay down. He complied, willing to let her take the lead once more, and she quickly climbed atop him, straddling his lower body and reaching down to take hold of his shaft. She rested her hand on his chest as she tried to line him up with her opening, his head sliding against her wet lips, before he finally sank in, and she lowered her hips slowly. He winced in sympathy as she hissed in pain, biting her lip, but he waited patiently as she adjusted to his width. She resumed her downward progress haltingly, rising and falling in gradually larger movements, until finally she sank down on him completely, her body swallowing his manhood to the base. Two voices sang out in guttural groans, both of them drowning in the pleasure of the sensations that they were finally sharing, something somehow so much greater than anything else so far. For a long moment she paused, meeting his gaze, both of them finding the wonder and pleasure and excitement they felt mirrored in each other's eyes. Then, at last, she began to rise and fall, and their ecstasy began in earnest.

For long minutes, Roger let her dictate the pace, rocking his hips to meet her as she descended onto him. He hissed in pleasurable pain, however, as he felt her fingernails scrape across his chest, and he looked up to see a now-familiar dark glee in her eyes as she began pounding against him, slamming down harder than before. His gasp at that feeling was ragged, but soon after he met her eyes with a new determination in his own; he would rise to her challenge. Her eyes widened as he gripped her waist, his hips rising violently from the bed, crashing into her with just as much force as she was exerting on him. He grinned at the lustful adoration in her eyes, and she leaned back, her cries and moans increasing in volume.

Her posture left her breasts jutting before him, and he raised closer to her, using one hand to capture a bobbing breast and pull it to his mouth, sucking on the nipple, teasing it with his teeth, then battering it with his tongue. Her pace increased, and the shaking jostled him back onto the bed, but she seemed hardly to mind. Instead, her moans were becoming more desperate, and she looked to him with begging eyes. "Roger, I'm getting so close. Please, don't… don't stop…"

Roger nodded, feeling a familiar pressure building within himself, but fighting to hold it back until she was satisfied. Instead, he redoubled his own efforts, pulling her onto him with his hands, bucking his hips, gritting his teeth against the pleasure. Priscilla's breath was shaking, and he gasped as he felt her fingernails claw into his chest once more, hard enough to leave burning trails, but still he didn't stop, especially as he saw the now-blank look in her eyes as her mind was lost to the overflowing ecstasy while her walls clamped and spasmed around him. Her next gasp was almost a scream, and she lost her rhythm, leaving it to him to maintain their pace while she was overwhelmed by her orgasm. He rose to that challenge, even as he felt his own release swelling over him, spurred on by the feeling of her gripping him even more tightly. Even as she sank against his chest, panting for breath, he came, releasing himself deep inside her, his hips wildly bucking automatically long after his pulsing shaft spent his seed into her.

She lay atop him as he slowed to a stop, and neither of them moved even as he softened inside her, hesitant to separate from the union they had both been craving for so long. Finally she excused herself as he slid out of her, cupping a hand under her in a futile attempt to keep his wetness from spilling out of her onto the bed. As she went to clean herself, he relaxed back into the bed, glancing for just a moment at the still-red furrows she had scratched into his chest with a blushing pride.

When she returned, his eyes admiring her nakedness as she crossed the room, she made to rejoin him on the bed, but paused. Instead, with a triumphant smirk, she moved to the far side of her own bed. The feet screeched against the floor as she shoved it the rest of the way against his, and he laughed as she climbed across the now-conjoined beds to settle against him. After a moment of fumbling, they made their way under his blankets, and snuggled in close together, her head resting on his shoulder and her leg thrown across his. Like that, they rested in silence for a long while, still rejoicing at the contact even in light of all they had just done.

Priscilla was the first to speak. Her fingers brushed against the marks she had left on his chest, and then she looked up to his face, her expression unsure. "Are you certain this is what you want?"

Roger chuckled. It was a little late to go back, and he never would have wanted to, anyways. "I'm sure. I want you to stay with me, Priss. Forever." She didn't reply, snuggling into his arm, but he could have sworn that he felt the faintest moisture against his skin, as if a tear of happiness had just rolled between them.

They laid like that together for a long time, afternoon sliding in to evening. Tired from the heat of the day, their long walk, and everything after, Roger drifted in and out of sleep, as did Priscilla beside him, cuddling him as close as she could manage. Finally, remembering the dinner he had promised to cook, Roger forced himself to wakefulness, glancing down with a smile to Priscilla. To his immediate surprise, she was looking up at him, fully conscious, an unspoken question in her eyes. "You're awake?" She nodded, her hand beginning to stroke his chest. As it meandered lower, he could see the smile growing on her lips, and he soon realized exactly what she had in mind.

"Do you mind?" she asked, shyly, her bolder fingers stroking him back to life.

"Not at all," he reassured her, a confident smile on his lips as he guided them to hers.

That night was not a restful one, for either of them. The beds slid apart at the worst times, their dinner was much later than usual, and they did not sleep until they both were utterly exhausted, the sky well past its darkest point. Still, it was the happiest time either of them had enjoyed, and it carried with it a promise of a future far beyond either of their previous hopes.

 **Author's Note:** It is my habit to try to save such explicit content for the ending of a tale, but such was not meant to be with this one. The story goes on, even after these lovers have shared their passion. Their story will go on even beyond the ending of this tale in particular...

Anyways, speaking of the end of this work, I near it currently. I have two scenes left in the longest of chapters left to write, and then the shortest chapter is the final,which has been promoted to chapter-length from a short epilogue. I hope to finish those this week, but we shall see what comes from Thanksgiving 'Break.' Such free time is rarely spent writing, much to my dismay at my lack of self-control.

As always, I thank you for reading my works. I hope you stick with me, even past this release, to see where the story turns from here. I shall return on Friday with the next chapter, barring unforeseen tragedy. I shall hope to hear from you in the meanwhile.

But, now, I have just long enough before the ballgames for a quick nap. Let me sleep...

~Wynn Pendragon


	7. A New Day

As the sun rose into the heavens over Goslar, the city was already stirring. Already, the forges belched out their black smoke, and carts ambled to and from the mountains. The townsfolk left their homes and headed for their jobs, or came home to slumber through the heat of the day. Business continued as usual, save for one shop, whose doors stayed locked for far longer than normal, the sign flipped to 'Closed' for this day as well as the previous. This caused no small amount of consternation among the store's usual customers. "What could be keeping him?" demanded an irate harpy to a patiently-listening acquaintance. "Do you think that orc kidnapped him and stole him off to the mountains?"

"I don't think so," whispered one gossiping werecat with a mouse-eating grin. "Some of their neighbors heard noises all… night… long."

The harpy huffed, ruffling her feathers indignantly. "Lucky orc," she murmured bitterly. "But I still need my order of feather mite powder, whatever their love life might be like." She glowered jealously in the direction of the chemist's shop, ignoring the way her friends shied away from her.

Not far away, in the town square, booths and stores were opening for the day's business, while a small group of people wandered through the town, taking note of potholes and crumbling walls. They were a few of the town's aldermen, a group of men and monsters led by the mayor's husband, a boulder of a man with a coal-black beard. As intimidating a picture as he cut, his image was modified somewhat by the young girl he led about by the hand, a young minotaur girl that skipped happily at her father's side while her mother prepared for that evening's meeting of the town council.

Old Stu Stonecleft, as he had come to be known by all save his wife (the sole living person with the right to call him Stewart), pointed out a few more rough places in the town's streets to those following, one of whom was taking notes on a slate. "If we don't get that one filled with stone, it'll wash out bad enough at the next rain to shatter a cart wheel. That's going to need to be a major priority," he rumbled, pointing to a specific gash in the road. As he stopped to talk to the others, his daughter looked up at him, and, desiring attention, began to step back and butt her head against his pillar-like leg, rubbing her nubbed horns on it. Still speaking to the councilmembers, her father reached down to muss her hair, and she giggled and hugged his leg, drawing his warm smile down to her.

Something else drew his attention away: the sound of hoofbeats at a gallop. He glanced up to see one of the town's guard sprinting towards him, motioning down the road. Following the guard's pointing finger, he saw a trio of mounted soldiers in ornate armor riding into the square, banners waving at the backs of the flanking pair. As they drew close enough that Stu could see the armor they wore, he reached down to push his daughter behind him, and the monster beside him stepped closer, hiding the child from sight, though she still peeked at what was happening from between her father's legs.

The riders rode in a tight circle, drawing all eyes to them. Many of the male viewers scowled openly at the sigil on the banners they bore: a spear atop the flame of the Church of the Holy Martyr. What the Sword Aflame was to the monsters of the mixed town, the Spear of Conquest was to the men, many of whom were the children or grandchildren of expatriates from nations that had been conquered during the War of the Barriers, when the Church's army had brought many other nations under its banner. It had been the Holy Order of the Crusaders that had led that invasion, and the sight of their mark flying in Goslar was sickening to those who had fled here to escape that flag.

"Attention, citizens of Goslar!" cried the man at the fore of the trio. He, like the others, was armored by a bronze cuirass, enameled in gold and molded with more sharply-defined muscles than the mid-aged man likely had. His companions wore helms with high crests of stiffened horse hair, dyed in yellow and white, and carried cavalry spears and shields emblazoned with the mark of their order, while the center man wore no helmet and carried only a scroll that he unfurled to read to those around. "I come bringing glad tidings from the Hellenistic Empire!"

At the edges of the square, Old Stu nodded to his closest friend, motioning to his daughter. "Get her to her ma. This could be trouble." Nodding, the man scooped up the young minotaur, who whined and reached for her dad as she was carried off.

"A holy site has been discovered near here, and must be ready for the faithful who would seek it for pilgrimages. To that end, the Church of the Holy Martyr has chosen to take up stewardship of this region, and has deployed a force of guardians to that end!" the herald declared to the swelling crowd, oblivious to the distrust on their faces.

"Since when are iron mines 'holy sites?'" groused one alderman. "No offense," he amended to the offended dwarven miner at his side, who nodded, mollified.

"Our force will arrive in ten days! Make ready to receive and feed three hundred men, and prepare to house our leaders, who will serve as advisors to the elders of this hamlet, according to our Law, for the duration of our time we choose to remain."

The town elders exchanged glances, but one of them stepped from the group, striding towards the trio of riders. Stu walked directly towards the messenger, his brow furrowed and his stare unflinching. He didn't speak until he was only a short distance from the man's horse, though his gravelly voice reached the ears of every person watching. "Your 'Law?' Is that the Law that forbids man and monster to marry? The Law that forbids monsters to live on ground you call sacred, which seems to be every bit of land in your sight?" Stu shook his head, his eyes hard. "You and your Law aren't welcome here."

The herald didn't bother to hide his sneer as his horse pawed at the earth, nostrils flaring. "Do you speak for these people? Do you defy the Law of the Hellenistic Empire?" When Stu didn't reply, merely crossing his arms across his chest and glowering at the arrogant knight, the herald laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "Then perhaps we need to convey a different sort of message." Glancing to his sides, the speaker nodded to his accompanying guards, who urged on their horses, their heaven-pointing spears beginning to lower, falling to be directed towards Stu. Still the man did not move, rooted in the earth like the rock he resembled, though his throat worked, hidden under the dense foliage of his beard.

As the knights closed in on Stu, the townspeople watched in terror, ringing the town square, their hearts trembling in their chests, yet only one moved to stand beside the man as the knights closed in. She was a lizardman, covered in leather armor and wearing twinned swords belted to her sides. Lacerta Steelscale emerged from the throng and took a place beside Stu, her slitted eyes defiant as she watched the knights come closer, now one spear aimed at her breast while the other remained directed at Stu's. She only moved subtly, nodding her chin slightly as they came almost within striking distance.

"Halt!" called the herald, a bead of sweat tumbling down his brow. His war-trained ears had picked up the familiar sound of a faint creak, and he had glanced to his side to see the lizardman mercenary standing there, a bow drawn and the arrow aimed unwaveringly at his temple. His eyes darted around the square, finding other bowmen interspersed throughout the crowd, who stepped aside to give the mercenaries a clearer shot. Even atop the nearby buildings, lizardmen perched, their bows trained at the hearts of the three knights with fatal precision. Still, the herald forced a grin onto his lips. "Come, now. Such flagrant threats have no fangs when we know you will not strike to kill." This admission brought an angered rumble from the crowd, unused to hearing that naked truth from those of the Orders.

"Oh, you are right," Lacerta acknowledged. "We don't kill _men_. However, we take no issue in putting down rapid dogs like you." Her fanged smile dared him to challenge her bluff.

"Go," Stu commanded. "Take a message back to your leaders. Tell them that they will find no welcome in Goslar." His stare was as sharp as the arrows aimed at the knights, and just as much a threat.

The Crusader's cheeks reddened in blotches, but he could find no way to salvage his pride and preserve his life at the same time, so he chose the one more important to him. "Come," he snarled to his fellows. "Leave these savages and their sluts to think about how proud they will be when our forces arrive. They will learn obedience soon enough." He sawed at his reins, and his subordinates snapped their spears skyward once more, following in his tracks to gallop clear of the square, clear of the town, spitting curses at passerby as they flew.

Only when they were gone did the town square erupt into speech, some cheering Stu for his bravery in the face of likely demise, others horrified at the implications of the knight's message. Some went racing to inform their neighbors, spreading the tale of the morning's events like embers in the wind that would ignite the flames of furious conversation across the town. Everyone would have their own thoughts and theories, and already that evening's town hall meeting was destined to be a raucous one.

A hand clapped onto Stu's shoulder, squeezing the unyielding mass with friendly compassion. He glanced to his side, nodding his gratitude to the lizardwoman beside him. "Thanks for the support," he offered genuinely, and she smiled in response.

"That was really brave of you, Stu," she opined, as her soldiers left their places in the crowd, headed back for their encampment, where soon enough they would have an emergency meeting of their own. "You risked your life in front of the whole town," she pointed out, faint wickedness in her smile, "but just think what Tara is going to say about it."

Only then did fear find its place on the face of Stu Stonecleft.

* * *

"What are we going to do?"

"Is there anyone we can call on for help?

"We have to stand and fight for our homes!"

Already the town hall was in an uproar when Roger and Priscilla slid into the overcrowded room. Normally these meetings were simple affairs, the town elders dealing with the matters brought before them with efficiency and minimal bureaucracy, but few aside from the aggrieved themselves cared enough to attend. The positions on the council were elected, but those selected tended to be the patient and the humble rather than the ambitious, simply because in Goslar that leadership tended to be seen more as responsibility than opportunity for power. Tara Rockhorn had been chosen all but unopposed in the past two elections, and she had accepted the nomination with her own belligerent stubbornness, preferring to spend her evenings at home with her family, but unwilling to turn down the challenge, even if it meant yawning through monthly meetings that ran late into the evening.

Today was a very different affair, as word had spread like wildfire of the day's warning from the Holy Orders, and concern was universal. The crowd was fairly representative of the town's population, mostly but not overwhelmingly made of monsters and featuring business owners mixed in with miners and blacksmiths. Each, however, was adding their voices to the chaos, shouting suggestions or concerns or frustrations, a simmering stewpot ready to boil over at any moment.

Only when Tara took her place at the podium at the fore of the room did the crowd fall into a tentative hush, waiting to see what wisdom the town's mayor may have to share. Those who knew her best could see the apprehension written on her furrowed forehead, but to the others she was her usual portrait of bullish obstinacy. "Alright, everyone," she bellowed, gripping the podium before her. "I know you all have heard of what happened today, and everyone has their own questions. Before we begin a discussion of what we know and our response, I want everyone to know that we will consider every option on the table. We will send messengers to other towns and gauge their responses. We will look into available mercenary groups in the area that could aid us. We will consider negotiations with the Orders-" This was a step too far, as men and monsters erupted into shouting. Tara glanced to her bailiff, a hobgoblin girl equipped with an oversized mallet, but she was dozily staring off into space. Sighing, the minotaur was forced to reach out and shake her shoulder before the hobgoblin came to her senses and slammed the gavel against the table before her, the thunderous collision silencing everyone with a jolt.

Taking a deep breath as she calmed herself and waited for her ears to stop ringing, Tara looked over the faces in the crowd. "I know," she said bluntly. "The Orders have no love for monsters, and we have no reason to trust them. What I am looking for is an alternative-"

"I have one."

The townspeople paused as the unfamiliar voice interrupted the mayor, turning in ones and twos to look at the entrance to the town hall. The woman standing alone at the door stood apart from the townsfolk, instantly secluded by the armor she wore among miners and merchants, as well as the cloak that billowed behind her as she strode towards the podium, pale blue flames licking at the ragged cloth at its base yet producing no smoke. She wore a sword at her waist, but her hands were spread wide open in a sign of peaceful approach, and beneath her long teal hair her crimson eyes were focused intently upon Tara. The insignia upon her breast in particular drew many gazes: it was a sword and blue rose crossed over a stylized heart, and it glowed as if lit by the same flame that danced on her cloak.

The reaction to that symbol was especially dramatic. While the men of the village, along with most of the younger monsters, stared in confusion at their peers, many of the older monsters pressed their fists over their hearts and lowered their heads at that insignia. Roger jolted as he noticed Priscilla was doing the same, her eyes hidden beneath her bangs. "What are you doing? Who is she?" he asked, watching as the armored woman made her way closer to the podium, Tara Rockhorn watching her come with a mixture of respect and caution.

"I don't know who she is," Priscilla explained, "but this salute is a respect given to high-ranking servants of the Demon Queen. Even in my tribe, growing up, we were taught to treat her agents respectfully. Whoever she is, she's a big deal."

Roger nodded, a deep dread trickling into his gut. First the Orders, and now the Demon Queen? He had not been prepared for this when he had woken up that morning- or, rather, afternoon. He saw a similar trepidation on other familiar faces as they realized how much trouble they were in the middle of.

The woman marched up to Tara, but stopped at the podium, turning to face her audience. "My name is Ceann Alpestria, and my partner and I have been working against the Orders' recent expansions. We feared that they may come for this area, and today those fears were proven to be justified. With that in mind, we have called on our resources to offer those of you here, and your families and loved ones, an option."

She paused, taking a deep breath, as if preparing for the inevitable reaction. "The Orders have sent an army here that you will not be able to resist. Even if you did, they would send another. And then another. They will not stop, until they hold what they want." Roger found himself nodding along with her words, his face clouded with resentment. "Even with the aid of mercenaries, like the Company of the Forked Blade I had hired to protect this village, you will not be able to withstand their forces." At this, Roger's eyes sought out Lacerta, and he found her leaning against one of the walls, looking his way. She gave him a slight nod, confirming the armored woman's claim, before glancing to the mayor and giving her the same confirmation.

"You cannot stay. You have to abandon Goslar."

These words triggered a riotous explosion. Everyone shouted at once, but a few voices cut through the din. "Where are we supposed to go?" demanded one man bitterly, and many others asked the same incredulous question.

"My partner has seen to that. As the, well, de facto owner of a place large enough to resettle you all, as well as the people of the neighboring villages, he is willing to house you until you can return to this town, once the Orders have moved on." Her throat worked, choking back the words 'if they move on.'

"And where is this place?" cried one apprehensive miner, a kakuen with her arm slung around her boyfriend.

"Far to the east, but on this side of the Great Veil. It's a former human town that we can rebuild-"

"Yeah, right!" bellowed one man cynically. "You serve the Demon Queen! You are just luring us closer to her domain so she can feast on our souls, or whatever she does to men!"

That triggered more than a few rolled eyes from the monstrous listeners, but the woman at the fore shook her head gently. "No, this is for your benefit. We just want to save you from-"

"Why should we trust anything you say?"

The woman with the teal hair paused at this, her emotions flitting across her face in an instant: doubt, desperation, determination. Finally, she nodded, more to herself than anyone else. "Because my partner is-"

"That's enough, Ceann," interrupted Tara, giving the woman before her a cautious glance. Roger frowned at the exchange, but most of those listening were too busy shouting to catch what Ceann had started to say. His curiosity would have to wait, however, as the mayor pressed on. "Even if we wanted to leave, how could we? Are we to leave our homes and livelihoods behind? If this place is as far as you say, how could we make ready to go in so little time?" The mayor's rumbling voice carried deep enough into the crowd to earn a relative quiet, as the crowd waited to see how the monstrous knight would respond to those questions.

Ceann nodded gravely. "I understand the sacrifices that would have to be made. We cannot take everything; we simply do not have the resources or time. However, my Mistress has sent us some things to help: carts, and supplies for the journey."

"And why would she do that?" called a now-familiar sharp voice from the crowd, the same that had offered several other biting comments. Roger followed it to see it came from a man with a dark scowl, a livid scar over his eye. He sat with two other men, as far apart from any of the monsters as they could manage.

Ceann glanced at him, but then ran her eyes over the crowd, meeting every gaze she could manage. "Because, deep down, this town has something that she believes in: a community where men and monsters can live, love, and work together. My partner and I want nothing more, and we will help you build a new place like Goslar, with our own hands." The crowd was mostly silent after that, with a few scoffing grumbles mixed in with quiet fearful whispers.

"I know I have given you much to consider," Ceann admitted. "I will return tomorrow morning with the first of the carts, carrying supplies to build more. If there are any experienced coopers, cartwrights, or carpenters here, I would appreciate whatever aid you can lend us. Those who can make ready soon with little to carry, we will send you on; others, we will arrange caravan trains protected by the Forked Blade to take you east. If you are willing to come, make haste, because they will be here sooner than you think." She nodded to the townspeople, her face naked of guile to hide her regret, before marching towards the exit just as she had entered. She had scarcely departed when the shouting began once more.

Some among the crowd left soon after her, taking with them rumors of what had occurred, and what might yet happen. Others turned to neighbors and engaged in furious conversation, ignorant of the commotion they were contributing to. Some howled for the attention of the mayor, who struggled in vain to calm the tempest raging in the room. Still others turned their minds inward, lost in their own considerations. Roger was counted among these; he was internally bombarded with myriad concerns and questions. He had been warned this might happen, and he had ignored Lacerta. But what was to come of his shop, the business he had worked so hard to establish here in Goslar? What would happen to his friends, and their own places here: Mithal and his dream restaurant, the goblin sisters, Rosa in her grove? Who would stay here, and who would go with this strange woman to the east?

His expression revealed his inner turmoil, and the woman next to him read him easily. He snapped back to the present as a hand took his own, squeezing compassionately. The relief it gave him was doubled by the certainty he found in Priscilla's eyes, and he smiled his gratitude to her, thanking her for saving him from his own fears. Whatever came from this, now they had each other, and that was worth more than anything else he had in the store he called home.

He felt a presence at his other side, and he glanced in that direction to find another woman looking at him with an unreadable expression. Lacerta sat down beside him, having crossed the room in the chaos, but before she spoke Roger noticed her eyes were oriented between him and Priscilla, at their clasped hands. "It seems congratulations are in order," she said simply, a mocking lilt to her words that was almost, though not quite, matched by her eyes.

The two new lovers blushed at that, not certain how to respond. Priscilla was the first to respond, meeting the lizardwoman's eyes directly. "Every tribe has to start somewhere," she said, shrugging her shoulders with a smile. Roger glanced to her, not quite understanding what she meant, but Lacerta changed the subject, coughing.

"Well, I know I owe you both an apology. Lady Alpestria asked that I not reveal the nature of my employer until it was absolutely necessary, even to those I rely on most. She was afraid people wouldn't trust someone working for the Demon Queen's coin." Lacerta shrugged indifferently, but her eyes were evaluative, as if searching her friends' faces for any signs of that distrust.

She didn't find it. "Lacy, it never concerned me who you were working for; I just knew you were protecting us." Roger tilted his head to the side, confused. "But who is that lady, and can we trust her? How long have you known this was going to happen?"

"We've known for months that the Orders would be coming; there is something here they want very badly, much more than just iron and silver. But we couldn't do anything about it until they moved first, because no one would have believed us, otherwise." Lacerta's tone revealed her frustrations at that. "Even if they had, then we don't know how people would have reacted. I was afraid this would turn out to be outright war. This forced exodus is terrible, but it's preferable to what would happen if people tried to stay and fight." Sighing, the lizardwoman shook her head for a moment. "As for Lady Alpestria, she's young, but she'll be a great leader someday. She's the daughter of the chief of the Demon Queen's personal guard."

Priscilla whistled low under her breath. "Wouldn't that make her the granddaughter of Beira the Ebon Knight, the Demon King's champion? I heard stories about her as a little girl. They said she stood up to the Heroes in single combat!"

Lacerta nodded, a similar respect in her eyes that was completely lost on Roger. "Lady Alpestria was the one to hire us, and she ordered us to protect the town until things could be made ready. I don't know entirely what she has planned, but she has asked that we help protect the caravans going to the new settlement." She paused, hesitant to make her next request. "Priscilla, we need all the help we can get, and you're already better than many of the girls serving in the company. Would you be willing to sign on with us to protect the people leaving Goslar? At the least, until they are clear of the mountain passes?"

Priscilla glanced to Roger, who nodded to her. "I'll be able to handle packing things at the store myself. They'll need your help more than I will; just be safe."

"We're going, then?" she asked, cautiously.

Roger grimaced, his fists tightening. "I don't have to be convinced about what the Orders are capable of. I don't want any of us to be in their hands, especially you two." He glanced between them, and they both gave him matching grateful smiles.

"Well, in that case, Priscilla, I will see you in the morning for your assignment. Be sure to get plenty of rest." Lacerta's eyebrow raised sharply, and Priscilla blushed, looking away. "Roger, I'll see about getting a cart prepared for you when you need it."

"Don't worry about me; there are a lot of people who need it more," he replied. "It will take me a while to box up my supplies and equipment, anyways."

Lacerta nodded to him, and then was gone. Roger watched as she approached the mayor, who had broken away from leading the meeting to converse with a group of the aldermen while the hobgoblin bailiff took the crowd's questions with a blank, accepting stare and frequent nods. As he watched, Tara's husband approached the minotaur mayor, a fragile smile on his face. She greeted him with a broad grin, but there was something in her eyes that made Roger flinch. From where he sat, he couldn't see what she did precisely, but from the way Old Stu hunched over, agony painted on his face, after her hand descended below his belt and looked to grab something with stone-crushing strength, Roger could well imagine what had occurred. Roger had heard what had occurred that morning in the town square, and it seemed Tara had been told as well, he surmised with a sympathetic wince.

Roger and Priscilla stayed for only a while longer, realizing that their presence would add nothing to the tumult, especially since Roger had already made his mind up as to his own course. Others seemed more hesitant to leave, though he could hardly blame them, especially those who had been born in Goslar. Still, leaving was better than also being buried in Goslar in an early grave. He had left his whole world behind once before, the same as Priscilla, but now when they had to do so again, they had a chance to take something important with them, and that is how he knew they would be alright wherever they ended up.

The town's rumor mill was running in an overheated frenzy, which is why no one noticed him walking hand-in-hand with Priscilla back to his home. Just a day previous, that sight would have sent the town wags scurrying with light in their eyes, but now it was hardly worthy of a side glance. That gave Roger and Priscilla a chance to enjoy that shared support without harassment, which they both greatly appreciated. With that peace, they didn't hurry back, strolling through the streets without any of the haste they knew they would have over the next few days.

The sun was setting on Goslar as they returned to his shop. The streets were full of monsters and men meandering amongst themselves, conversations and concerns choking the usual stream of commerce to a halt, but one man in particular stood out to the lovers: a looming figure that leaned against the wall of his store, half-shaded by the angle of the falling sun, dressed in full plate armor that coated him head to toe. Even the crowds that milled about the streets gave this stranger a wide berth, perhaps tying him to the day's earlier events despite the obvious differences between this man and the Orders' soldiers. Even from a distance, Roger could tell this person had nothing to do with the Church, even when the shadows nearly hid the carvings of cavorting beasts upon his breastplate.

As they drew closer, Roger took a protective step in front of Priscilla, instinctively guarding her as they neared the stranger. She smiled at him from behind, fully aware of how counterproductive that action was, but appreciative of it all the same. The stranger did not seem to take notice of Roger's defensive stance, nodding genially to the couple as they approached him. "You would be the chemist, then?"

"That's right," Roger admitted. "Do you need something?" He glanced warily to the sword at the man's waist.

"Yes, and you're just the man to help me with it." The knight's tone was polite, but held sharp laughter within it. "I have a proposition: how would you feel about a chance to help out the people of this town, and get a little vengeance on the Orders at the same time?"

Roger glanced to Priscilla, gauging her reaction, before nodding to the other man. "That sounds good to me. What do you have in mind?"

"Let's step inside, and I will tell you everything." The knight stepped back, allowing Roger to unlock his store. Together, the three of them entered, and closed the door on the town outside as the people of Goslar began to break down and pack up their lives under the dying sun.

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _And now this story begins turning towards its conclusion. Just in time for that, I am pleased to announce that I have officially finished writing this work; I completed the tenth chapter late last night. I still intend to put the final two chapters through the editing wringer another half-dozen times to get things as perfect as I can manage, but still... it is written. I will be posting chapter 8 on Tuesday of next week, and the climatic chapter 9 will come a week from today, leaving only the final chapter afterwards._

 _Once more, allow me to thank you all for reading, and especially those of you who comment. Anzer'ke, GioMM, and Lazaryan, your kind words gave me an incredible boost of confidence as I threw myself at the finale of this work, and I hope in time you will be pleased with what came out of it. I realize that this, and the coming chapters, take a turn towards the serious, but 'Resolution requires Conflict,' as I am fond of saying._

 _Finally, I fear I may be taking a brief writing hiatus - of only a few days! - to gather my notes for the next story in this arc. I shall hope to finish my research and storyboarding quickly, and take up the pen once more all the sooner. To be honest, sometimes my muse leads me by the nose; I may even start on the prologue before I can begin my research, should the spirit force me to it..._

 _Anyways, after all of this writing and research, there is only one balm for a wearied mind. Now I only need to sleep..._

 _~Wynn Pendragon_


	8. First Winds of Winter

Dust billowed into the sky behind the trail of knights as they rode hard for Goslar. The armored column was making swift progress across the plain before them, riding with the midmorning sun at their flanks as they hastened northwest. They were still far from their destination, but had left the heavier portions of their entourage behind, determined to arrive all the sooner at their journey's end. Even in their haste, the riders kept their weapons close at hand, even if they had left their destriers' heavy barding with the supply train. They were ready to fight, though there were few nearby foolish enough to challenge two hundred mounted knights.

A figure atop a distant hilltop watched the procession through a tinkered spyglass, a trophy she had taken long ago from a conquered bandit gang. Lacerta Steelscale ran her gaze over the force that covered the plain before her, her concern unhidden on her face. She had known the Orders to be capriciously cruel, but was disappointed to see her fears had been proven right: after the confrontation in the town square nearly a week before, the leaders of this force had been angered enough to push to arrive sooner, all the better to punish those who had defied them. Thus, they had elected to split their force, leaving a third of their warriors behind to protect their supplies, while the bulk of their strength raced forward to conquer the obstinate town that had rebuked their herald.

This revelation was especially concerning to Lacerta as she considered their course. It was likely they would approach Goslar from the north, the easiest access to the town. Most of the refugees leaving the town took that exit, instead of traversing the more difficult roads through the southern mountains. Either way, those fleeing the town would be heading east, which made it more likely that they would cross paths with the army marching on Goslar. At this point, she feared, she would have to tell the refugees to take the slower southern route, and to hide in the mountains until the knights had arrived in Goslar. That would work, except for a specific threat: the bandits that made their homes in those mountains.

Most of the citizens had already fled Goslar, either following Ceann's suggestion and traveling east, or dispersing to other towns hopefully removed enough from the mountains the knights were aiming to seize to spare them the misfortunes of a hostile occupation. A few remained, however; stragglers slow to pack up their lives, or those too stubborn to leave their homes. Of the latter, almost all were humans, though some monsters had voyaged into the northern forest in the hopes of finding succor amongst the tree-dwellers, many of whom refused to abandon their woods to the hungry depredations of the Holy Orders.

Lacerta would have hoped that Roger would be among those who had already left, but she knew better. Priscilla was still making trips back and forth, protecting the caravan trains and returning once they were safely clear of any route the Order's men would follow. Her orc friend had told Lacerta that Roger had taken on a responsibility from Ceann's partner, the man-knight that had proposed this relocation, and that the chemist wouldn't be leaving until it was done. That decision had left the lizardwoman's stomach in knots, and now she watched the knights' approach with grim dread, hoping her own swift horse would be able to take her back to Goslar in time to see him and the others clear of the town before this force, weighted down by their armor and equipment, could arrive.

"They draw near more quickly than expected," expressed a soft voice inches from Lacerta's ear. The lizardwoman rolled away, climbing to her feet and drawing her blades in an instant, her instincts firing before she could even begin to wonder who had spoken to her and how they had managed to sneak up on her. As she faced the intruder, however, her guard slackened only somewhat; she knew the costume the other woman wore, as well as the spade-tipped tail that danced behind her, were marks of the foreign servants of the Demon Queen, the kunoichi. Certainly enough, the woman bore the mark of the lord of monsters upon her clothing, but she was also heavily-albeit-subtly armed, which was of more immediate importance to Lacerta.

"My apologies," the other woman bowed, though her eyes looked to show the smile hidden behind her veil. "I seem to do that to people quite often."

"No, that's alright, as long as you're on my side," Lacerta replied, still eyeing the woman as though the final part of her statement had been intended as a question.

"Indeed. I also come to take note of our enemy's progress; the man I have been ordered to obey has plans for them, and he wishes to know more about them beforehand." She glanced at the distant procession, her eyes squinting as she tried to see despite the miles that separated them. She glanced down to see the spyglass that the mercenary captain had extended to her, and accepted it with a nod of gratitude.

"It's not good, I'll tell you that. That part of their army is mostly Crusaders; presumably out of Vindobona City, judging the direction they are travelling and the style of their banners. There is a sizable force of Purifiers, as well, with around thirty of them riding together at the fringes. That in particular worries me. Beyond that, I see a few Inquisitors and Warders, and enough Protectors to guard their garrison." She shook her head, concerned. "They also seem to have a lot of higher-ranked members. Many of them have banners with family crests beneath the sign of their order; that means they are of the highest normal rank, Lords. The rest are a mix of Knights and Errants, typical for an army of this size. I'd bet the lower-ranking Squires were left with the wagon trains."

"Even more of them come, beyond those?" The kunoichi stared at them through her spyglass. "Such a force will not be easy to dislodge."

"No, and that's why we won't be worrying about coming back to Goslar for a while. Now, all that matters is getting everyone to safety." Lacerta accepted the spyglass back from the other woman, securing it at her waist alongside one of her sheathed swords. "I'm leaving now to make sure everyone clears out immediately. If we take the roads through the southern mountains, we can probably evade them, but only if we leave now."

"Yes, well, the man I obey has a few ideas to keep them from pursuing us immediately." The kunoichi stared at the knights still, her concern obvious despite her masked face. "I only hope his plans are good. Such men seek only blood."

"Well, they can't have mine," Lacerta said, moving to the side of her horse and checking the tack. With the straps secured, she vaulted into the saddle, not hearing the other woman's low response. Taking up the reins, she wheeled her horse about, facing in the same direction of the knights. Unburdened by armor, she hoped her mount could carry her back to Goslar with hours to spare before the arrival of the Orders, but she knew better than to rely on expectations. "Travel safe and swiftly, and take care that they do not see you," she warned the kunoichi.

"If they see me, then they will be the ones to regret it," the other woman promised darkly. When Lacerta glanced back towards her, the assassin was gone, disappeared into the high grass. Chuckling to herself, the mercenary captain spurred her horse on, aiming for the fastest route back to Goslar, and those still left there. She could only hope she returned in time to warn them.

* * *

Roger sighed as he looked over the boxes that held all the garnishings of his life in Goslar, and wondered how much of it would survive the trip to his new home, wherever that would be. It had surprised him how few boxes it had taken to contain all he owned, even considering the delicate glassware that he had packed in with hay. He tried not to think about how those instruments would fare on the rough roads outside of town, but such couldn't be helped.

He had only just finished his packing, having been kept busy over the past few days on the task the strange armor-clad man had assigned him. His packing had also taken longer due to Priscilla's absence; after the night of the town hall meeting, she had been gone all but constantly, escorting caravans out of the town to a safer distance before returning for the next departures. She had barely had time to rest, and certainly hadn't had time to help him, let alone spend any time in his arms.

Still, part of him was glad Priscilla had been away so much. He wouldn't have wanted her to be there if something went wrong. After all, he had spent nearly a week making nothing else but explosives.

The armored man that had commissioned those same explosives had accepted the last of them the previous evening, after Roger had utterly exhausted his supply of materials for crafting any more of them. He wasn't certain what the man had in mind, but the amount Roger had made for him would probably be enough to turn half of Goslar into a smoking crater. He had actually asked the knight several times if that had been his intent, and after the mysterious man's denials, had gone on to ask again several times more, just to be certain. Roger was all for hampering the Orders, but was not willing to burn down his own home to do so.

Instead, the man had taken them, packed carefully in hay, on a road that led out of town towards the south. Roger wasn't certain why he had chosen that way, since he doubted the Orders would take the rougher mountain roads in that direction to come into town, but the matter was out of his hands now. Instead, he had only to prepare his own cart for departure, and hope for the best.

Unfortunately, even that last step of packing was out of his hands at the moment. He had been promised a cart by the strange knight, but a problem with its axle had kept it from being delivered. The wrights working on it had sworn it would be ready by noon, and that they would deliver it to his store, but until then he had nothing to do. That sudden silence gave him a moment to think, but those thoughts only caused his stomach to churn, as he feared for Priscilla's safety, their future, and the fate of all of his friends.

He was immensely relieved, then, to hear the door open behind him, and he turned to see Priscilla enter the shop. Her face was painted with exhaustion, dark rings under her eyes and a pale thinness to her cheeks, but the smile she gave him was bright, and he rushed to her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly to him. She resisted feebly, "Stop, I stink, I haven't even rinsed off in days," but quickly returned his embrace when he didn't relent, instead nuzzling his cheek against hers. They were both slow to let go, but finally fell back to arm's reach, looking at each other's faces. "Sorry, I can't stay long," she apologized. "I told Bronda I would help load the last of the things she's taking. Do you have everything packed?" She glanced at the crates all around them, regret clear on her face.

"I have everything ready. I just left a few of your things out, to see if you would need them." He nodded to the main counter, where a couple of her tunics lay atop a few of Priscilla's other belongings. "Oh, and there was something else, a glass container of some fluid I didn't recognize; I left that out as well." He pointed to the tall carafe of golden nectar, before glancing back to her, alarmed at the paleness of her face. "Are you okay?"

Priscilla's response was slow in coming. Finally, after long moments, she met his gaze, regret weighing down her eyes. "Roger… I have a confession to make." Roger listened, alarmed, as she explained the story behind the alraune nectar: where she had gotten it, and why she had taken it from Rosa. "I thought that maybe, if I used it, then you might… see me as worth keeping around. That we would be happy, if we could just get past that first step. But I promise I didn't use it! That's exactly as much as she gave me, down to the last drop!" she insisted desperately, trying to read his face.

Roger nodded blankly, his head lost in his own thoughts, struggling to understand what Priscilla was saying. He could accept what she had considered doing, especially since he had known early on that she had also resisted the urge to force herself onto him. He appreciated that she hadn't used the alraune nectar; it was better that what they had shared came from their feelings, instead of an aphrodisiac. Priss had given in to temptation, but not so much as to use the nectar on him. Even as he wondered if she ever would have, even if things had not gone so well between them, another pressing thought rose to his mind. "Priss… what did you give her in return for this? Why would she give this to you?"

His lover's head sank lower, and she gazed at the floor. "She wanted… she wanted you. I wouldn't- that's not something I could agree to, because that is your choice… so she asked for something else." Priscilla paused, taking a breath. "She wanted my permission."

Roger shook his head, dumbfounded by what he was hearing as he deciphered her words. "What do you mean, permission? Do you mean…?" He sighed, his hand coming to his brow, rubbing against his aching temples. "Listen, that's not important right now. We have to get out of here. We can figure all of this out later, once we're all safe."

Priscilla glanced up at him, her head still lowered, biting her lip nervously. "Will you forgive me?" she asked hesitantly, watching him closely.

Roger glanced away for a moment, frustrated by his own warring emotions. He took a deep breath before turning back to Priscilla, ignoring the fear in her eyes. Instead, he drew closer to her, lifting her chin to plant a kiss on her forehead. "I'll forgive you. I love you, Priss, and this doesn't matter to that." Another nagging worry ate at him, though. "I'm going to go check on a few people before we leave: Mithal, for one. And Rosa. I haven't spoken to her, but I want to be sure that she has a way to leave."

Priscilla nodded, her eyes still locked on his. "If… if you wanted to give her what she wanted, then-" She cut off as she saw the look he was giving her, his eyebrow arched. "I'll go help Bronda. I'll see you soon," she amended, wrapping her arms around him. Their embrace was short, and their lips barely brushed against each other in a farewell kiss, before she left out the door she had entered minutes ago.

Roger sat alone for a long moment, still digesting what she had just told him. He had known orcs were more open with relationships, but he was still adjusting to the idea. He wondered if Priscilla missed her tribe so much that it left her open to suggestions like the alraune's, though he shook off that idea quickly. He also wondered what he was going to say to about this to Rosa, though he wouldn't let that dread keep him from checking on her. After all, he didn't know if anyone else in Goslar would.

With that thought in mind, he headed for his door, taking a moment to lock it despite himself; at this point, the town was all but deserted, and he doubted anyone would have time to go looting emptied houses before the forces of the Orders arrived. As he proceeded down the familiar streets, the atypical silence grated at him; he could hear only the creak of departing wagons and a few souls shouting to each other to hurry. He saw almost no one before he arrived at his destination, the place he had chosen to visit one final time to savor memories just as he had savored its meals, but the Randy Stallion Tavern was closed, the windows dark.

"My apologies, my friend," offered a voice from nearby, and Roger jumped despite himself. He turned to see someone leaning against the corner of the building, a sack at his feet. It took Roger a moment to recognize his close friend in more casual clothing; he'd almost come to believe Mithal's apron and white cap had grown from him like a second skin. "Had we ingredients, I would cook you a farewell feast. Sadly, they took those too."

"Why are you still here, then?" asked Roger, concerned. He could see the timid despair on his friend's face, but had believed that Mithal would have already left with the rest of the refugees days before. A pang of guilt plagued him as he regretted not checking on his friend sooner.

"It seems the owners of the tavern decided last night they would have better luck to the west, so they took their belongings that way. They thought they would be better off in territory held more by man than monster, and when I disagreed they left me here with the remainder of my pay." Mithal's shoulders raised, then flopped. "I don't blame them, of course."

Roger walked over to his friend with a reassuring smile, clapping the chef on the shoulder. "Well, lucky for you I have an extra seat on the cart they've promised me, if you want a ride. You'll just owe me a good meal whenever we get to wherever we are going."

Mithal smiled at him, and as he responded, he raised his voice over the clatter of a wagon that was drawing near them. "I won't turn you down; it sounds to be a rather long walk. Perhaps there will be a new tavern at our destination that I could get work at; I'm sure they will need someone to put uncooked boar meat on a plate." He grinned at his friend, chuckling in self-deprecation, not noticing the nearby wagon slowing to a stop.

"What are you talking about?" exclaimed a shrill voice from the seat of that wagon. Roger and Mithal turned to see a quintet of familiar faces grinning at them from that height. From the side closest, the red-haired goblin wagged a finger at the chef. "You're going to start up your restaurant when we get there!"

Roger nudged his friend in the ribs with his elbow, but Mithal shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, girls, but I certainly won't have enough to start a restaurant when we arrive. I've barely saved enough to find a place to stay at, let alone start a new business there." To punctuate his point, he lifted up his coinpouch, revealing his savings were far from sizable.

"Wow, that is terrible," mused Mori the grocer, shaking her head.

"You're unemployed _and_ homeless," added Muri the smith, rubbing salt into the mix.

"You're going to need a place to sleep," leered Mari the potter.

"But if you found some people, beautiful and kind and attractive and generous, that were willing to invest in you…" mused Meri the former tavern maid.

The brown-haired girl sitting in the middle said nothing. Roger recognized her as the hobgoblin bailiff from the town hall meeting, and she was far more generously endowed than her sisters, and far stronger as well, judging by the way she hefted the large bag of coins from the footboard of their cart.

"Then we can start the restaurant together!" chimed all of the goblin sisters together.

A battle of emotions raged on Mithal's face, and Roger saw shock struggling with relief, fear grappling with gratitude. His friend's eyes were misty as he shook his head, but there was suspicion in his voice as he spoke to them. "You all just want me to owe you one, don't you?"

"A lot more than one," chuckled Mori darkly.

"Maybe one a night," added Mari, sharing a grin with her sister.

"Each," insisted the hobgoblin, who Roger presumed was named Miri.

"I don't know about that," Mithal paled, glancing for support to his friend, who merely shrugged. "Still, in terms of business, if you all are serious about starting the restaurant together-"

"We've been saving up for months! This is the profit from all our work, and that is how we've been planning to spend it!" Meri answered.

"I was done with owning my own store," Mari explained. "Too much hassle. But I can make plates and bowls for you now!"

"And I know how to make silverware," chimed in Muri proudly.

"You'll need someone to procure ingredients," reminded Mori.

"And you'll always need me, 'cause I give the very best service!" bragged Meri, winking to Roger.

"Well, I can play the violin, to help set the mood," suggested the hobgoblin in her huskier voice, pulling a wooden case from the back of the wagon and holding it up. Mithal blinked in surprise at this, then nodded appreciatively, already imagining what this setup would look like.

Despite himself, the chef shook his head, laughing at himself for going along with this madness. He glanced back to his friend with a smile. "It seems I should maybe ride with them instead, if they have the room."

"Yeah! We can just push Mori out."

"Hey! You take that back!"

Roger nodded, slapping the other man on the back. "Good luck with them, my friend. I'll see you when we arrive." Roger watched as Mithal approached the wagon, hesitantly hoisting himself onto the side wall of the wagon instead of climbing onto the seat teeming with goblin girls. The chemist's eyes widened, however, as he noticed a tall clay jar looming next to the place Mithal had chosen to try to climb over, but couldn't voice his warning in time. Before anyone could speak, Mithal lifted himself up over the sidewall of the wagon, only to come face-to-face with the dark-skinned girl that had emerged out of the jar. For a long moment, his wide blue eyes stared into her amber ones, and he was far too surprised to react as she lurched forward, pressing her mouth against his. Roger winced at the shrill goblin shriek as the jinn's mouth worked against Mithal's, before she pulled back with a gasp, ducking into her jar just in time to dodge a hammer thrown by Muri. Mithal was still frozen in place, his mouth still open as he blinked in confusion, while the goblin girls cursed Djennifer and threatened to break every jar in the wagon until they found her.

The hobgoblin relaxed the reins, and the drafthorses began to pull the wagon onward. Mithal promptly fell into the cart, but soon came back up holding a large clay bird. Confused, he looked to Mari, who beamed at him. "I made it for our restaurant!" she explained cheerily. "It's a swan!"

Mithal's face fell, and he inspected it again with a critic's gaze. "It looks like a long-necked duck to me."

"Exactly! Oh, hey, that reminds me: do we need to go back to get the statue I made you?"

Mithal paled, shaking his head. "Oh, I'm sorry, but there was an accident…"

"He hated it, I told you!" Mori gloated.

"No, he told me it was great!" Mari defended herself, looking to Mithal for confirmation, which he gave her with a rictus grin. "Just you wait, then. I'll make you an even better one! And then we can put it out in front of the restaurant…"

Roger laughed as his friends rolled away from him. He wished them all luck, though Mithal most of all. His human friend was definitely destined for a chaotic new life, although far be it for Roger to scoff at such, considering his own situation. He waved to them until they rounded a corner, disappearing from sight. With that, Roger turned back to his final task. Bracing himself for the long, quiet walk, he began his course north, treading the now-silent streets of Goslar like a ghost as the sun crested its course and began to fall. He had a long way yet to go, and not much time.

* * *

Even as the shadows of the northern forest greeted him, Roger could tell something was very different on this visit. A chill wind gusted from the branches towards him, and even with the warmth of the midday sun Roger shivered as he looked into the darkness of the woods, shades that once felt warm and mysterious now instead imposing and forbidding. Even with all the warmth of late summer heating the fields behind him, these trees had taken on the faded greyness of winter, and despite himself Roger hesitated to step into their domain. Pressing on, he found the paths that he had committed to memory, dirt trails that showed they knew the feet of men, were all but disappearing beneath sprawling underbrush that grasped at his ankles. Several times he thought himself lost, and choked down instant panic, only to glimpse sight of salvation in a familiar landmark moments later. The forest whispered ominously under its cloak of shadows, and it felt to Roger that hours passed before he found the ring of trees he had been searching for, though the beam of sunlight that pierced its center was barely angled through the branches above.

Roger strode without hesitation into that grove, even as he swallowed his concerns about the conversation to come. Rosa's bloom was slow to open this time, but he hardly stopped to wait until he drew closer than ever, his jaw set stubbornly as the bud that cradled her began to blossom open. As she emerged from its confines, Rosa was stretching languorously, her considerable chest thrust forward towards him. Roger didn't look away, but even with the determination he felt he kept his eyes locked on her face as his cheeks heated to a dull glow. Her carnation-pink lips parted in a lethargic yawn that closed only as her violet eyes slid open, focusing on his with an intensity that brought a fully-bloomed smile to her mouth. Her arms slid down her form, across her stomach and hips, to clasp each other behind her back, and her shoulders swayed in a motion that dragged his eyes southward with a dreadful gravity. "Well, my dearest Roger! I would have believed you long gone, by now." Despite her smile, he could see something in her eyes he could not recognize, though it was replaced soon with suspicion. "Wait…" She scrunched her nose, grimacing. "Well, it seems Priscilla was bolder than I gave her credit for, after all. It seems she has been enjoying you."

Wondering how she could possibly know, Roger refused to be shaken. "That's not what I'm here to discuss, Rosa."

"Oh?" The expression the alraune wore was markedly jaded, and her eyebrow raised sharply. "Then it seems our piggy princess didn't live up to her promise after all."

"She did. I know about the nectar, and what she gave you in return." Rosa's eyes opened wide at that, and her jaw dropped at his frankness. "And we all can talk about that later. Again, that's not why I am here."

"Are you certain?" Rosa leaned closer to him, and he stood close enough that she could reach out and brush her fingers against his cheek gently. "Could you be convinced to consider it now?"

Finally, Roger could recognize what had been in her eyes earlier: fear. He could sense her anxiety in the way she bit her lip, pinching down its nervous trembling, and he knew she was afraid he would reject her. "No, I wouldn't." Immediately she winced minutely, and started to withdraw, but he shook his head, stepping even closer. "Because we can talk about that later, after you come with us."

The pain on her face was washed away by confusion. "What do you mean?" She glanced at his hand as it came up to gently grip her wrist.

"I won't leave you here. The Orders are coming, Rosa, and they will burn this forest. Once they figure out that monsters live here, they will hunt all of you down. They won't stop until they think you are all dead, because they won't tolerate anyone who stands against them." He stared into her eyes grimly. "I know this too well. It's not something I like to talk about, but… my parents served the Church faithfully, enthusiastically. They weren't the nicest people, but they did speak out against the Church, once, after the priests raised taxes even higher to build their army more and more. It wasn't a week later that they died in a 'carriage accident' at the coastal cliffs. My eldest brothers took over our estate, and they were nothing but even more loyal to the Orders and the priests." He swallowed through a tight throat. He hadn't even told Priscilla about his parents yet, but if it would convince Rosa to leave with them, then he didn't regret saying it now. "The Church takes what it wants, no matter who is in the way, and that's why you have to come with me."

"Oh, Roger." The way Rosa touched him now was very different; there was no seduction in the way she brushed against his hair, nor in the way she looked at him. Still, the pity in her eyes made him almost as uncomfortable as her usual sultry attitude. "I'm sorry for what happened." She pulled back from him, shaking her head as her face fell further. "But I can't come with you. I have to stay here, to help protect this forest."

"You can't," Roger insisted, but she placed a finger against his lips, silencing him.

"This forest is more powerful than you know. What you have seen is only a single leaf on a great tree. Those men will find no monsters when they step among the trees, nor will they find a path through that will take them anywhere they know. The woods will leave them lost and alone and very far from home. Darling, if you only knew how many leagues we are from that little town you den in, it would frighten you." She smiled at him, but he didn't relax. "You only think the path to my grove is short because I always want you to get here as soon as possible. They will find no such courtesy."

"Then they will cut down the trees until they find you." Roger shook his head sadly. "Please, Rosa."

"I can't. If I leave, then we will lose even more of this forest to them." Roger met her gaze, distracted only by the tear that rolled down her cheek. "But I promise you, I will be alright. At the least, until you come back. You… will come back?"

"I will. I promise." Roger found that his chest was tight, and his free hand was gripped in grieving frustration. He hadn't known this would bother him as much as it was, but it felt like his heart was being crushed in his chest. "We will come back for you."

"I'll hold you to that promise." The smile Rosa gave him was as bright as the sunlight she bathed in, and she ran her hand over his cheek, as if she thrilled at touching him with her hands instead of teasing him with her vines. This was the first time he had gotten so close to her, and only now did he notice how vulnerable she seemed. She leaned back, glancing away with a deeper green darkening her cheeks, but she still kept her hand against his face. "Will you let me be selfish once more, then, if I have to wait for you to return?"

Roger paused, not responding. He was afraid he knew what she would ask, considering her deal with Priscilla. He didn't know what he would say if she did.

"After all, Priss gave you her permission for so much…" Roger swallowed against his tight throat. "Surely something less wouldn't hurt?" She wouldn't meet his gaze now, uncharacteristically shy, as if she feared she was asking for more than she had bargained for. "Just… a kiss?"

Roger froze in place. This was going to be trouble.

His silence was too much for her, and she laughed awkwardly, waving her hand dismissively. "Oh, listen to me. I'm just teasing you again, don't-" She stopped still as his hand extended to brush against her cheek. Her violet eyes were wide in wonder at the wry smile he gave her, but he couldn't completely hide his nervousness either. Instead, his hand curled into her hair, cupping her head, pulling her towards him, and she bent closer, like a sunflower chasing the light. Their kiss was gentle, like a rosebud trailing against skin, and did not end soon. Roger breathed in her sweet scent, but no haze settled over him, her pollen held just as was her breath as she caressed his face. Finally, they both pulled back, their eyes wide, and both fought down the urge to resume, to press on. The clouds only returned to his heart when Roger realized that it was time for him to leave, before he stayed to convince her, before he brought Priscilla here with him to help fight the Orders, before whatever impossibility his mind could conjure.

Rosa met the sadness in his expression with an ephemeral smile. "Oh, don't look so sad, my prince. We plants sleep every winter, and you will be my spring when you return."

Roger nodded to her, putting on his bravest face. "I'll be back, as soon as I can."

Her fingers trailed away from his cheek as she straightened. "I know." She said nothing further; her true last words to him had been hidden in her kiss. Instead, she stood boldly in front of him, completely bare to his eyes and rejoicing as they discovered her beauty. The petals of her flower began to close around her, the one between them the last to move. As it finally closed, sealing her from his sight, his final glimpse of her was her face relaxed in a tender smile, as if she slept in the midst of a pleasant dream.

His heart conflicted, Roger turned to leave Rosa's grove. After their kiss, he vaguely felt like a hole had opened under his feet, and he had stepped into it willingly, but there would be plenty of time later to worry about that, too. He hated to leave her here, still not able to believe she would be safe, tortured by the thought that he wouldn't even know whether she was or not. At that thought, he noticed a strange feeling against his hair, and reached up to discover a flower tucked behind his ear, just where Rosa had caressed him during their kiss. As he held the flower, he could have sworn he felt Rosa's presence, hazy and dreamlike, and he nodded down at the gift she had given him, a memento of his promise.

As he left the grove, he stepped into the forest, no longer bothered by its cold silence. He saw it now as an animal cornered, fangs bared at a predator, and he saluted it and wished it luck in its fight. In that conflict, they were allies, and despite himself he wanted to stay and help resist those who would soon come. Still, he hastened his pace, hurrying to return to his shop, where a cart should be awaiting him and Priscilla, their last chance to flee before the Holy Orders arrived.

It was time to leave Goslar. They would be back.

 _ **Author's**_ _N_ _ **ote:**_ _I return once more, with another chapter in tow. Only two remain until this story is concluded! I intend to maintain the usual pace until the end, so 9 will be posted Friday, and the finale a week from today, assuming all goes as planned._

 _Work has begun on the successor tale to this one, though I will admit I have been struggling with rare doubts on my course with that specific tale. It has, thus far, been considerably darker than this one, at least in its commencing chapter, and that gives me pause. I know the story as a whole will be slightly darker, but ultimately just as optimistic as this one... but still I worry I may not have the skill to pull off my intentions well enough. I may have to call upon friends for advice on this one..._

 _However, my confidence has been bolstered by a different success, at least in my own appraisal. I also post this work on other sites, namely MGU and TouchFluffyTail, and on that latter site I participated in a speedwriting contest this weekend. I am quite proud of the work I created in a scant two hours, though I cannot yet name the story; the contest continues until this coming weekend. After that, I will likely post that story here as well, though I will say it is completely separate from this arc, even if it is based on the MGE. To those curious, I encourage you to check out TFT, and see the fruits of my efforts and the seven other contestants!_

 _Anyways, thank you all once more for reading, and I especially thank those of you who comment for cheering me on. I shall return soon enough with more of this tale, the climatic chapter at last, but first... well, you know._

 _I must sleep..._

 _~Wynn_ _Pendragon_


	9. Nightfall

The sun plummeted slowly, falling from the heights of the heavens like an angel with a broken wing, spilling rough-edged shadows deep into the crevices of the mountains south of Goslar. Those steep peaks brought night early to the roads that meandered between them, only the highest extremes still bathing in the dying light until the sun sank below the horizon. Even on the brightest, driest of days, those mountain roads were far from safe; travelling them at night was to treat one's own life with callous disregard.

Yet still the final caravan pressed on. Those unfortunate stragglers had left the town hours before, but the winding rocky roads were not made for swift transit. The handful of carts trundled along the stone-ridden roads, their drivers casting wary eyes up at the cliffs above, fearing rockslides, fearing gaps in the road hidden by shadow, fearing what lay behind them.

One driver in particular kept an eye on the stone slopes above. Roger had already had enough trouble out of rockslides; while he had no reason to complain about how the last one had changed his life, he preferred not to take his risks with another. Beside him, Priscilla also kept an eye on the ledges around them, albeit for a different reason than her companion. In their need for haste, the leaders of this caravan had chosen a particular route through the mountains that would see them reach an open valley sooner, and there they could make camp for the evening. The road they travelled was decidedly familiar to Priscilla, who knew it to be home to bandits, with one group in particular preferring it as their hunting ground. She would know; she had scouted these roads many times with her sisters.

When the hoofbeats of an approaching rider finally pierced the din of rattling wagon wheels, Roger and Priscilla turned anxiously to glance back at the horse galloping towards them. They relaxed simultaneously when they saw the fiery mane of Lacerta Steelscale streaming behind her as she rode closer. Her face was set in a scowl, which sparked new fears in the pair, and so Roger called out to her as she drew near.

The mercenary captain pulled on her reins gently, slowing her steed as she came alongside their cart. "I'm glad to see you both made it out in time," she spoke, though her relief was overwhelmed by other tension. "They've taken the town. I stayed just long enough to see them arrive."

"Are they sending anyone after us?" Priscilla asked, glancing behind them, though the sharp curves of the mountains hid everything only a short distance back.

Lacerta shook her head in frustration. "I couldn't stay to see. They would have followed me otherwise. I only hope that they get confused by the trails the other caravans left; we sent them down different roads for that purpose." She looked irritably ahead of them, to the wagons ahead making gradual progress down the road. "You all should be much further away than this."

"There was one wagon that nearly went over the edge, and it slowed us all down," Roger explained, glancing to Priscilla as he felt Lacerta's anxiety affecting him and his companion. The orc was sitting with her fists balled in her lap, biting on her lip. "I'm sorry. I was late coming back from the forest… if I'd come back quicker, we would at least be further in the line."

Priscilla didn't respond at first, instead glancing to the flower that sat in a small clay bowl between them. Roger had told her everything that had happened once he had returned, as much as he had dreaded to, but she had taken it more calmly than he had expected, though he hadn't quite deduced why. She had even expressed her own regret that they had to leave Rosa behind in the forest while they left Goslar. She had been the one to take the flower from him and had placed it in its new home with a little soil from the narrow alley outside their shop, sensing something special from the delicate bloom, a connection to the alraune that had gifted it to Roger. "No, that wouldn't have changed anything. We just can't afford any more delays. They'll send someone after us, I know it."

"We didn't see any bandits on any of our previous trips through this pass with the other caravans, but-" Lacerta froze atop her mount, her eyes narrowed as she stared in dismay at something on a sunlit ledge across the gorge from them. Roger and Priscilla followed her gaze, taking just a moment to discover a lavender-haired woman standing there. The woman in question was dressed in crude leather armor that left much of her skin bared, and she held aloft a spear, which she raised twice as she looked directly at them with a broad grin. Her eyes seemed to peer directly at Priscilla despite the great distance between them, though it took Roger only a moment to notice the floppy porcine ears atop her head, which kindled a slow-burning understanding in the depths of his gut. He glanced back at his lover to find she was staring fiercely at the other woman, her teeth bared. Before he could ask her anything, she cursed loudly.

"Viola," Priscilla snarled afterwards. "I bet she took my spot as second-in-command. This isn't good. That was a challenge."

"Do you think they are going to attack the caravan?" Lacerta asked, her eyes rapidly scanning the bluffs ahead, searching for lurking ambushers.

"If they were, she wouldn't have shown herself to us," Roger countered, still looking around despite his thoughts.

"They're not after the caravan," Priscilla responded in a deep growl. "She's calling me out. They want me, and…" She looked to Roger regretfully, and he swallowed loudly as he caught her meaning.

"Well, that's not going to happen," Lacerta proclaimed. "We don't have time for anything like that."

"And they know it." Priscilla sighed, gripping the edge of her seat hard enough that her fingernails sank into the wood. "That's how they intend to lure me out. If I don't go, then they will attack the caravan."

"That's insane!" Lacerta snarled, her free hand sinking to the hilt of her sword. "I don't doubt you, though. I've heard of the leader of these bandits, and she is very bold, and very vindictive."

"I have to go." Priscilla turned and began rummaging in the back of the wagon, searching for her belongings. Roger turned to her in shock, barely watching their course.

"No, you aren't," he insisted. "How many of them are there? And against one of you? No, I am not okay with that." He watched as she pulled something from the back of the wagon: not the sword he had ordered for her, but two blunted practice blades from her time training with Lacerta. "And you're taking those, instead?"

"I can maybe work this out as a duel," she explained, though doubt was coated thick on her words. "I'm the one Berala wants. If she just wants to get back at me, then-"

"Absolutely not!" Roger shouted. Priscilla gave him a helpless smile and shrug, resigned to her decision. Furious, he fumbled at his belt, pulling free the short cudgel he had once more belted at his side. "Fine, then I am coming with you."

"No!" shouted both girls simultaneously.

"Priss is going to need someone to watch her back," Roger explained, glancing to Lacerta, "and Lacy, we need you to stay here in case the Orders send knights after the caravan. Someone has to try to hold them off, at least." Roger turned back to Priscilla with a determined glance. "I won't let you go in there like this, not alone."

"Listen," Lacerta pressed them, "Ceann said her partner had a plan to help make sure that the Orders don't come after us. If we can wait long enough for him to do whatever he has planned-"

"Berala won't wait that long," Priscilla responded grimly.

"But that means we only have to distract her for long enough for him to act," Roger insisted. His mind flashed to the heaps of explosives he had crafted for the knight; he had a good idea what the man's plan was, and it would certainly stall the Orders. He glanced helplessly back to his belongings in the back of the wagon, but well remembered the crate that held most of his original Diffudozers - dark lavender diffusers, he corrected himself hastily - was buried too deeply to access without stopping the cart to unload. With all of those, they could have brute-forced their way into the orcs' lair, leaving them all sleeping behind them. Instead, he called ahead for Mithal, and three carts ahead the chef stood in the bed of the goblin's wagon, glancing back to his friend, who was waving for him to walk back to them. "Mithal can drive our cart. We will be in and out of there, just long enough to distract the orcs until the caravan is past. Then we can meet you all in the valley ahead tonight."

Lacerta sighed deeply, her face showing all the exhaustion she had forced down over the past week. "I don't see this working."

Roger shrugged at her innocently, handing the reins off to Priscilla as he prepared to hop down and speak to Mithal. "We'll be fine. After all, they're like family to her, right? They should focus on her, and then I can distract them enough for us to escape." His forced naiveté did not sway the lizardwoman, who glanced over to Priscilla, discovering that the orc was also shaking her head, trepidation written in bold across her brow. Roger was oblivious to this as he dropped to the ground, hastening to speak with his human friend.

"I'm sorry, captain," Priscilla yielded. "I don't want him to go either, but I can't make him stay. If things get bad…" She swallowed. "If things get bad, I'll make sure he gets out, okay?"

Lacerta stared at her friend for a long moment before nodding. "Please. I can't stop him either. I'll come back for you, if that's what it takes. But you know what they will do to him."

Priscilla met her look with fire in her eyes. "They'll have to kill me first."

Minutes later, Lacerta rode on, as Mithal drove his friends' cart, and two forms slipped into the shadows and followed a hidden path down into the ravine, headed for the caverns of the orcish bandits down below.

* * *

High in the mountains south of Goslar, a knight stood in stoic silence, his eyes searching the narrow crevasses below him. Easily enough he spotted the line of encumbered beasts and wagons making a trundling pace down the uneven roads; with the fading light, they had been forced to light torches to illuminate the path ahead. They would be lucky to reach the valley beyond before nightfall pounced, and it would be dangerous indeed to travel those perilous paths without proper light of day.

Still, they were not his concern. Instead, his eyes were trained further to the north, back towards Goslar. He glanced to the sides once more, to the places he had marked for his new griffon allies from the mountaintop temple; he could see the packages they had left on the summit nearest to his, and could only hope that the others were similarly prepared. That meant the rest of his plan would be up to him. With that in mind, he reached down to a pouch at his side. From it, he withdrew a small crystal that gleamed a pale blue in the evening sunlight, flickering faintly from within. He smiled down at the leycrystal he had taken from the ancient temple, smiling bitterly behind his helmet. So sad, to have fallen so far to have to rely on such a thing.

He took it into his left palm, and slipped his right hand free of its confining gauntlet. He savored the rare feeling of the wind on his hand, though he adamantly refused to look at the gnarled wine-dark flesh or the red-hued talons protruding from his fingertips, blunted by his frequent futile efforts at trimming those fatal-looking nails. He dropped his gauntlet to the ground, then took the crystal into his right hand, feeling the coarse edges against the toughened skin of his palm. With a spasm, he crushed the crystal into shards, sighing as he felt a rush of potency flow into him. The energy it gave him was nothing at all to someone used to far greater power, but, for this, it would be enough.

He knew he could put his plan into motion now. With a single snap of his fingers, he could hinder the ambitions of the Orders, leave them simmering in their own impotent frustrations and self-righteous fury. Still, he bided his time, waiting for just the right moment, waiting to see if he was right about them still.

Moments later, his suspicions were confirmed. There, in the distance, was a column of dust rising into the air. Though the hapless caravanners could not know it, a smaller group of knights rode hard for them, making rapid time despite the darkening paths. The knights would catch them before long, and then it would likely turn into a massacre, the refugees slaughtered in the mountains with no witnesses to reveal the truth of what had happened. They would never make it to the valley, if the knights were not stopped.

The man atop the mountain stared at them with a rare feeling of doubt. He remembered what the kunoichi had told him. He remembered Ceann's words to him. He could trigger his trap now; the caravan was clear, and the knights would be denied their prize. Still, even as he struggled with himself, he knew what he had to do. Even if the caravan survived, these men would soon enough find other sport.

And so, the knight waited grimly atop the mountain, poised for the perfect moment, waiting for a fatal instant of vengeance.

* * *

The caves were empty as Roger and Priscilla made their way deeper into the orcs' stronghold. Priscilla had led them easily to a hidden entrance to the cavern complex, and from the moment they had left the caravan to now they had yet to see a single orc, let alone evidence of the whole tribe. Roger was beginning to wonder if the orcs still intended to attack the caravan, having lured off one of its only defenders, but didn't dare speak to mention the idea to Priscilla. More likely, he tried to reassure himself without success, this was all just a trap for them in particular.

Priscilla stayed in front of him, hefting her torch to show him the path over the uneven ground worn smooth in places by trickling water, stony in others. Roger suspected this wasn't one of the orc bandits' usual entrances, judging by the lack of wear from traffic, but Priscilla seemed to know it well, striding with confidence. The further they made it into the caves, however, the further they were from escape; Roger could not dismiss that notion from his mind.

At last, they reached an area that showed more signs of habitation: crude sconces had been pounded into the cave walls, holding rough torches that cast dancing lights over the walls. Priscilla extinguished her torch, handing it back to him, her hands staying tensed by the hilts of the practice blades she had insisted on bringing as her weapons. He was glad she at least wore her armor, Bronda's handiwork making her an imposing figure despite what it left uncovered. The going was easier now, and Roger suspected they had entered the orcs' living quarters. His belief was reinforced when they found an opening between chambers that had been walled off with heavy drapes, making a barrier to the wind that still ghosted along the caverns' halls. At that entrance, Priscilla turned to face him gravely, nodding her head. This was where she expected to find the other orcs.

She reached out, brushing the curtains aside, stepping quietly into the chamber beyond, and he followed, swallowing down his nerves. Entering behind her, he realized they were entering the orcs' dining hall, a larger room that reeked of smoke, though he could see the roof angled skyward, presumably offering a vent that kept the orcs' fires from flooding the chamber with impure air. The angle of the entrance kept him from seeing much of the room, but as they rounded the bend Priscilla stopped in front of him suddenly, and he nearly collided with her.

Glancing over her shoulder, he could see why she had frozen in place. In the middle of the large room beyond stood a crowd of orcs, over a dozen and likely closer to twenty. They had obviously been waiting for Priscilla; the tables in the room had been shoved back closer to the walls, while the orcs themselves were standing in a crowd in the wide, empty space in front of a crude throne topped with a bull's skull. The large chair itself sat empty, and Roger looked about the crowd, wondering which of the milling women was Berala, curious for the first time what a 'high' orc would look like. He had always just pictured a larger Priscilla, maybe with a crown or coronet.

One of the orcish women stepped forward. She was attired similarly to the rest, dressed in revealing leather armor with delicately-placed straps covering her most sensual areas. Roger blushed as he remembered seeing Priscilla for the first time in the same style; he almost wished he could see that again. Shaking off his lechery, Roger noticed that the woman stepping to the fore was the same lavender-haired orc that had challenged Priscilla from the cliffs above them, presumably a leader or lieutenant of this bandit gang. Her eyes were narrowed, and her smile was cruel, and like many of the other orcs she now held a makeshift mace, which she used to motion towards Priscilla.

"So, sister, you've come back to rejoin us. And how thoughtful, you've bought a gift!" The orc glanced back at Roger, her eyes lighting with an entirely different kind of fire. Her gaze lingered on him for an uncomfortably long time, especially lower on his body, as if she were trying to peer through his trousers. "We will put him to very good use, won't we, girls?" The orcs behind her laughed, all of them wearing the same expression, like starving wolves eyeing a beef haunch.

"Viola," Priscilla snarled. "I should have guessed that you would be the only one willing to bow and scrape enough to Berala to get my old place as second-in-command."

"You flatter me, sister," Viola replied, her eyes still caressing Roger before she finally tore them away to glare at Priscilla. "I'll admit, though, the job isn't worth the trouble. You can have it back, if you want it." She spread her hands wide, proclaiming her generosity in front of all the other orcs. "Just put down your weapons, swear to follow Berala again, and give us him." Viola's eyes flicked back to Roger, who frowned as he looked to Priscilla. "We'll even share, like we are supposed to."

Priscilla was quiet for only a moment. "I have a new tribe now." She looked back to her lover with a soft smile. "You all can't have him, or me."

Viola sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Well, I guess there's no other way to handle this, is there?" She thrust her stone mace towards Priscilla. "We'll just take him, then, and you'll have nothing. Get ready, sisters."

Several of the orc women complied with that order, stepping towards Priscilla with weapons in hand. Viola was not one of them, standing back with her arms crossed against her chest. Priscilla's gaze flew between the handful of women working to surround her, spreading out to flank her. "Looks like you're as big of a coward as Berala is, Viola. I bet she won't even show her face till the fighting is over."

"It's one of the perks of leadership," Viola confessed, inspecting her nails as the six orcs moved closer to Priscilla, the others still standing ready in the crowd. Roger swallowed at that; he had counted eighteen heads total among them, including the six that had stepped forward, and he knew that Priscilla was definitely outmatched. His hand descended towards his waist, but Priscilla looked back to him, warning him to stay back from the fighting.

The orcs paused as Priscilla drew both of her practice blades, slipping into a stance that Roger recognized from watching Lacerta fight during their time together. It seemed more of a surprise to the orcs, who glanced at each other nervously, not having expected their errant sister to have trained during her time away from them. That moment of hesitation was all Priscilla needed, launching herself at the closest, her weapons blurring through the air.

In just a moment, one orc lay unconscious upon the floor, and the others surged in, Priscilla laying about her with both dulled blades, her ferocity keeping her sisters back and drawing cries of pain. The armor Bronda had forged rang out as maces clashed against it, the high notes among the percussion of weapons striking flesh, flesh slamming onto stone. Roger watched helplessly as the battle continued, as the other orcs began to join the fight, as Priscilla fought for both of their lives.

* * *

Purifier Errant Stefano urged his mount onward, his teeth set as he squinted his eyes against the dirt billowing into his face. He hated being at the back of the squadron of outriders, but had been ordered to serve among their rearguard by the Lord in charge of these thirty men. His wound had long healed, but his pride still bled profusely, flowing ever since the day that beast his struck him down with her obscene penis-sword. He could see the mocking scorn in the eyes of his brothers every time he looked to them, and was certain that was why he had been condemned to the back of the posse of outriders, especially from the laughter his comrades had shared as they had taken to their mounts.

Only hours before, he and the rest of his brothers had arrived at the forsaken monster den they had been sent to cleanse. The town had been abandoned, save for a few human men, who had quickly been apprehended. While they were being questioned, a Warder Lord had discovered fresh tracks leading into the southern mountains, and now he rode at the head of the thirty knights that had been sent to track down the last monsters that had fled from the town. While it was easier for the Orders to clear the town now that it was abandoned, the insults the beastwomen and their slaves had given the herald of the Orders could not be borne without recompense. They would carve out their vengeance on these laggard creatures, and leave only enough alive to give warning to those who had wisely fled first that soon the Orders would come for them as well.

Stefano had wanted to be at the fore of the column. He still dreamed of getting bloody vengeance on that piggish whore who had struck him down and had embarrassed all of his brothers. He shuddered to think what the monsters had done to them while they slept off that strange gas, but the priests back in Vindabona had found no sign of contamination upon them. His soul felt tainted, however, and he intended to wash it clean with her blood. He only hoped she was among these dawdling cowards, who surely could not lie much further ahead.

Their column rounded another bend, a mountain rising very steeply to their left, plummeting down into a ravine to their right. The dying embers of day glowed on them here, and something drew Stefano's gaze upwards. After a moment, he spotted something out of place: a dark speck high atop a mountain ahead of them, contrasted with the ruddy glow of the sun upon the mountainside. That dark figure gestured towards them, and despite his efforts the jostling of his horse and the expanse between them shielded the motion from Stefano's eyes. It wouldn't have mattered to him; he had no way to understand the significance of the man atop the mountain snapping his fingers.

The sound shook him, a dull low sound like distant thunder, but oddly staccato, sounding again and again before the echoes began. He and all of the knights gazed upward in surprise, expecting a monstrous ambush, but at first they saw nothing, only massive clouds of dust billowing up from the peaks. That was when the ground began to rebel under the hooves of their horses, and those looking heavenward noticed the motion rolling their way. The explosions above them had loosed tons of stone from their homes, and the graven refugees followed the path of gravity, cascading down the mountain like a tumbling tide.

In a panic, Stefano sawed at the reins of his steed, yanking back. Already the stones were bouncing and bounding down onto the road ahead of him, and his panicked mount fought against momentum to stop, to turn, not to tumble into the ravine in its terror. It was all Stefano could do to clutch to his horse as the beast bolted back the way it came, abandoning its kin to the descending veil of earth. As they ran, stones pelted against him, leaving bruises under his chainmail, sending blood trickling down into his eye, but still he rode like his life depended on it. It did, as could attest the majority of the knights moments later, were they able to attest anything at all.

High atop the mountaintop, the knight watching the three fleeing outriders smiled grimly under his helmet, before he turned and walked away.

* * *

The fight in the caverns far below was not over, but the rumbling in the mountains brought it to a pause, as both sides withdrew a few steps, pale pink chests heaving for breath as the enemies eyed each other warily. On one side, the orc bandits glowered at their sister, those that could. Six of them lay on the ground, senseless or too battered to stand, while five others clutched bruised limbs and stared through swollen eyes at the berserker they had not expected to emerge from a woman they had once fought alongside.

On the other side stood Priscilla, though only just barely. She had trained well with Lacerta, had shown promise beyond the short time she had spent with the mercenary company, and that had given her the advantage against the orcs she had grown up with, who had seen decidedly little fighting in the past months. That advantage did not make up for sheer numbers, however. Her armor had been battered by crueler strikes than the loving attention Bronda had used to shape the metal, and her bared skin was dirty and darkened by bruises. She panted for breath, and her crouch was less tension than exhaustion. The academic part of Roger's brain had noted that the orcs worked as a pack, and seemed to favor subdual over damaging vitals; he wondered if that came for their usual practice of taking prisoners for ransom and for mating. Those attacks still left their marks, however, and Priscilla's blood ran from several places. When they escaped, Roger swore to himself, he would spend a long time treating those wounds, just like he always had.

They only had to escape first. Roger was waiting for one other person, the absent Berala, to make her appearance, but so far the high orc had not revealed herself. He prayed that the quaking earth hadn't collapsed any of the caves they would need to flee from these thieves, but right now he had more immediate concerns. While six of the orcs were down, a dozen still stood, over half of them utterly unscathed, while Priscilla looked on the brink of defeat. He considered reaching for his cudgel and joining her, but knew doing so would only make things worse. He had to wait, just until the right moment, and then maybe he could help her.

"Well, Priscilla," snarled Viola, stepping to the fore. "It looks like you're about done. Why don't you just lay those swords down? We'll let you go free." Her eyes moved on Roger, and her grin was ravenous. "Not him, though."

"Why don't you step up and let me show you how done I am?" Priscilla suggested, her voice nearly a growl. "How do you feel, following a coward, girls? Her and Berala both."

The battered orcs on either side of Viola shot her bitter glances, and the orc lieutenant stepped back, swallowing. Before she could answer, however, a low laughing from a different side entrance to the chamber drew everyone's attention. The woman that stepped into the room looked very different than the other orcs. She was taller and leaner, her darker skin tight over her bared stomach, thighs, and upper arms. 'Bare' was one of the first words to Roger's mind as he looked at her; she wore very little, and her prodigious assets threatened to break free of what little she did. Her fashion sense tended towards the bestial, skulls capping her head and one shoulder, and what looked to be a skeletal claw cupped one of her imposing breasts. The other was crisscrossed by a strip of black cloth, and she wore a decidedly-small bottom made of the same cloth, the article brief enough to be called a thong. A thick mane of white hair cascaded down her back, and a thinner, similarly-colored patch peeked from the front of her panties. Her forearms and shins were covered with cloth sleeves with fur-tufted ends, though Roger couldn't imagine they were intended for protection. This woman looked like she needed little in the way of shielding, judging from the feline grace she showed as she walked towards Priscilla, her hips swaying as if intended to draw his gaze. Her eyes, a brilliant yellow color that glowed in the light of the room's bonfires, were wide with dangerous mischief as she stared at Priscilla. At her side, the newcomer carried an immense axe nearly as tall as herself, the metal of the blade dark enough to be almost black.

Something else about the woman struck Roger as surprising: as she entered the room, a scent began to overpower the reek of smoke. It was musky and dark, a smell that reminded him of nothing more than Priscilla's sex, and despite the danger they were in Roger noticed his pants felt tight at the crotch, and he shifted his stance, lowering a hand to cover the appearing bulge. He was pleased for a half-instant to notice he wasn't the only one affected, as the other orcs had a new lust on their flushed faces, tongues moistening their lips as their unencumbered hands slid over their skin, wandering under their leather straps to seek sensitive regions. His relief vanished as he noticed their attention was refocused on him specifically, and he could tell very little was keeping the orcish women from rushing him and leaving their clothing behind.  
The only person in the room unaffected by the high orc's musk was Priscilla, who straightened slightly, her eyes flaring with a different kind of lust. "So, Berala, decide to finally stop hiding and come out and face me?" Priscilla challenged, her hands wringing at the grips of her practice blades. The high orc smiled at her in response, displaying her gleaming teeth in what was only nominally a smile.

"Well, well, ya finally showed up, little sis. I've missed ya." Berala shrugged casually, stepping closer to Viola, maintaining a distance from her former lieutenant. "'Bout time you remembered us."

"Priscilla, we need to go." Roger's eyes darted about the crowd of orc women, noticing the way they were tensed to pounce. The smell in the air was dizzying, and he knew it would take little for the bandits to overwhelm his lover if the high orc called for it. "They're all here, I can-"

"Roger." Priscilla looked back to him, and his heart collapsed at the stubborn expression she wore. "I have to do this. Run and get help."

"Priss, no, that isn't-"

"Ya think ya'll make it?" Berala taunted them. "These are our caves. The girls'll get ya before ya get three rooms away. Naw, jus' stay and watch." For the first time, Berala's eyes turned to Roger, and he shivered at the intensity of her gaze. He felt vaguely like her eyes were pressing against his flesh, roughly handling him as if taking his measure, and her grin revealed she liked what she had discovered. "Ya can stay for the victory feast."

"Over my dead body."

"Aww, so serious, sis." Berala sighed and shrugged, closing her eyes as she lifted her axe to point vertically before extending it out for Viola to take. "This isn't like that. It'll be like before." The high orc's empty hands flexed as she walked closer, and her eyes opened to half-lidded. "Ya remember, the last time I beat yer sorry ass into the mud."

Roger buried his face in his palm as Priscilla's two practice blades clattered to the stone floor of the cave. This was not what he had planned. Instead, Priscilla crouched in a wrestler's stance, waving the high orc forward. "I'm not drunk this time, Berala."

"Jus' as cocky, though," Berala mocked her. As she drew nearer, Priscilla began to approach as well, their pace slowing, both women beginning to turn in a circle like wary predators. As they turned, Roger swallowed as he noticed that the high orc was nearer to him than Priscilla, who in turn was closer to the other orcs. It would have been easy for them to attack her from behind, and for Berala to subdue him, but instead the orcs were all focused on the fight, their breath caught in their chests as they waited for the struggle to begin.

It commenced with a rush, a collision of two female bodies as they grappled with each other, trying to get enough of a hold to force the other down. Their feet pressed hard against the ground as they strained, shifting their weight, their hands slapping in blows that their opponent would twist to weaken. For just a moment, it looked like Berala's height was giving her the immediate upper hand, but Priscilla's forearm flashed up, her metal bracer catching the high orc's eyebrow, knocking her back with a cry of fury. Priscilla pressed her advantage, pulling her arm back for a full punch, but Berala advanced, stepping into the strike and trying to use it to force Priscilla off balance as her knee launched at Priscilla's stomach. A loud cough exploded from the orc as she doubled over, and with a feral grin Berala raised her linked hands in a hammer-blow. It was instead her chest that met Priscilla's helmet as the orc tackled the bandit lord, forcing her back enough for Priscilla to rise with a vicious left punch that left Berala staggering.

Berala wiped a hand across her mouth, grinning at the dark blood painted on the back of her hand by the motion. "Ya jus' never know when to quit." Before her opponent could reply, the high orc charged, hammering her face forward. The sound of that collision was like thunder, boar skull slamming into casque, face into face. Both women staggered back drunkenly after that, but Berala proved to have the denser skull, throwing herself against Priscilla once more, carrying her enemy to the ground with her.  
The battle dissolved into chaos, fists and elbows flying like raindrops in a storm, both women grunting in pain. Roger struggled not to interfere, but a glance at the other spectators kept him in check. Viola, out of the entire group, was watching him closely, daring him to intervene. Swallowing, he turned his gaze back to the fight, praying that Priscilla would emerge victorious.

The combatants had separated, trying to climb to their feet as they panted for breath, shaking their heads in vain attempts at clearing their vision. His stomach sinking, Roger could already see there was trouble. Priscilla's earlier fight had already left her exhausted, and her eyes were unfocused, her form trembling as she tried to force herself off the ground. Berala staggered back, her legs as unsteady as a newborn fawn's, but Priscilla was still laying on the floor of the cave. With a full-lunged shout, Berala pulled her fist back and threw herself forward, the punch descending like a meteor. Priscilla collapsed prone onto her back, her eyes blank, and Berala's chest heaved for the long minute it took her to move once more.

Priscilla's fingers twitched, but she couldn't move before Berala's foot fell onto her throat. Roger growled deep in his throat as his lover clawed at the cloth covering Berala's ankle, her face reddening as she fought for air. Her futile attempts weakened to slaps, until finally her hand slumped to the ground, and Berala removed her foot. Immediately Priscilla's lungs sucked in air with a great heave, and a fit of coughing left her thrashing on the floor.

Berala looked down at her vanquished sister with a deeply satisfied grin. "Get her," she snapped at the others, and several of the orcs rushed to grab Priscilla, dragging her up by the arms. Priscilla wobbled as they forced her to her feet, most of her weight supported by the women to either side of her as she stared at the ground without seeing.

"This wasn't a fair fight." Turning at his voice, Berala looked with a smile at the man in the room, her tongue working at a split in her lip. "She was nearly exhausted before you even came in. You cheated."

"Maybe," Berala shrugged indifferently. Her smile was hungry as she met Roger's disgusted gaze. "Ya'll cheat too, on her. Every night. Every day."

"-touch him." Shocked, Berala whirled to look at Priscilla, whose head was fighting to rise. "Don't you dare touch him."

"Well, well, little Piss." Berala spat onto the ground, her words angrier as she faced her still-defiant rival. "Don't worry. Ya can watch." Furiously, Berala turned towards Roger, hooking her thumb under the waiststrap of her thong. "Ya can stay here till yer an aunt nineteen times over, and then we'll let ya go so ya can find a new man that someone else can take from ya."

"Don't!" Priscilla screamed, tears blossoming at the corners of her eyes as she threw herself against the women holding her, all four orcs struggling to keep her in check. "I swear, I'll kill you if you touch him!"

Berala snarled at her, turning and pulling her fist back as the other orcs tightened their grips on Priscilla's arms. "Stop." As if by that desperate command, Berala paused, turning to look at Roger. She found him with his hands lowered in front of him, his head hanging. "Don't hurt her any more. I'll… I'll do whatever you want. I'll stay here, if that's what it takes. Just let her go." As if to give proof of his offer, Roger grabbed the front of his pants, as if preparing to lower them.

"Yeah, well, ya'll do it anyways. But since ya asked so sweet, why don'tcha show yer new mates what ya have to offer?" Behind her, all of the orcs leaned forward, their eyes focused entirely on his hands, pleading them to do as Berala asked. For a long moment, they stayed still, not moving an inch.

Instead, his hands turned. Berala frowned at the two clay orbs he was displaying to her. "Those ain't the balls I'm wantin', boy," she chided him.

Roger gave her his sharpest grin as the orbs, the same ones he had carried ever since the fight in the town square, began to shriek a whistle that echoed off the cave walls. "Are you sure? 'Cause these are Diffudozers, and they're great!" His hands flew forward as he tossed them underhanded into the group of orcs. Berala watched them come, turning her body so they passed neatly on either side of her, but as they did they erupted with dark purple smoke, billowing around her and deep into the swarm of orcs, who immediately began coughing. Berala did not wait to figure out what he had done, instead lunging forward, her hand grabbing his shirt at the throat.

"Jes' for that, yer gonna be with me all night, until there's nothing of her scent left on ya," she snarled. Still, her eyes blinked, then lowered to half-lids. "I'm gonna ride ya till…" She swayed side to side, shaking her head slowly. "Till I…"

"Sorry," Roger apologized. He gently pulled her unresisting hand from his shirt, almost having to support her as she leaned forward. "I already have a girlfriend." He reached out to her, planting his hand on her chest and shoving back softly. She topped back like a stricken oak tree, crashing to the ground numbly, already asleep.

The cave was dense with the sound of orcs snoring, a cacophonous symphony leagues beyond his worst nights with Priscilla after they had first met. His love was adding her own sweet tones to the mix, laying in the heap with the others, mostly obscured by the smoke still billowing from the diffusers. None of the orcs were left standing, and Roger took a moment to cover his face with a heavy cloth from his pocket, bracing for what came next.

Priscilla had ruined his plan. If she had been beside him, as they had discussed before entering the cave, then she would have been away from the smoke. Now, though, he was going to have to go in to get her out. He would have to carry her clear, out of the cave itself, before the others woke up. His heart pounded against his chest as he realized how hard that was going to be. He didn't have time to strip the armor from her, could only hope that the cloth he carried would keep the worst of the smoke from his lungs.

As he dashed into the cloud, he immediately realized that it wouldn't be enough as the cloying scent of dark lavender penetrated the cloth, seeping into his mouth, his nostrils, his lungs. He struggled to lift Priscilla's dead weight, the cloth slipping away from his face as he fought to hold his breath. Tripping over the leg of one of the orcs, he gasped out his air, and dark lavender flooded in, already working its insidious magic on his mind.

Roger stumbled out of the orc bandits' dining hall, his eyelids heavy. Priscilla lay heavily across his back, her breastplate mashed against his spine, and he tried to use that pain to keep him aware. It wasn't nearly enough, and he staggered against one of the cave walls, blearily trying to divine where they were, futilely struggling to remember the path they had taken to enter these caves. Surely they were close to the entrance. Surely they were almost there.

His eyes were heavy, and the rooms were dark, but he was sure they were in the rougher caverns just near the entrance. He would just have to carry Priscilla up the hill towards the road, but as he tilted forward, pressing against the incline, he thought he could do it. If they could get to the road, then Lacerta would find them. He swore he could feel the chill wind of the mountains against his skin as he stumbled, desperately pressing onward as gravity dragged at his shoulders.

In reality, Roger was only a single room away from the dining hall when he slumped to the ground, his mutinous eyelids pressed together despite his furious will. He lurched forward, crawling, Priscilla still draped atop him. They could still make it out. They could-

Roger collapsed forward, his face resting against the ground as his fingers tried to pull his body onward. 'I'm sorry, Priss. I'm sorry. I'm…'

He heard the soft tread of feet on the ground ahead of him, but was asleep before he could even consider what that meant.

* * *

Berala smacked her lips together, one of her hands coming up to numbly rub the drool from the corner of her mouth. The sting of pain from one lip jolted her, and her eyes cracked open. She dumbly stared at the far ceiling for long moments before she realized that she was not in her chamber, not laying atop the pile of skins she kept as a bed. Her head was too murky for her to remember why this could be important, so she started to close her eyes once more.

Priscilla. Her eyes snapped open, and she fought her slumbering muscles, throwing her weight enough to roll onto her side. She had fought Priscilla, and won again, and then she had gone for that man. There had been… balls? Smoke? He had touched her breast, she remembered with a warm blush.

She forced herself up, shaking her head against the drowsy confusion. How long ago had that been? Were Priscilla and her lover still there? She peered across the room, noting the piles of sleeping, snoring orcs, not seeing any sign of Priscilla's light brown hair. Her fury lighting a fire in her muscles, she tried to stand, determined to chase after the woman that had just stolen her would-be mate from her.

Instead, she noticed something else amiss with the room. The light was wrong. The torches were… she squinted at one of them. It burned with a cerulean flame. It, Berala's sleep-muddled mind assured her, did not usually do that.

The soft sound of a throat clearing brought Berala's head pivoting slowly towards her throne. Her eyes at last opened as she noticed someone sitting in it. No one else had done that since Priscilla had challenged her by plopping down into in front of all of the others. Berala started to growl out a threat, but the fog in her brain was clearing rapidly now, and she noticed that the woman sitting there was no one she knew.

The woman on the throne looked at her with a regal smile. She was fully armored, the platemail far more ornate than anything Berala had seen before, and the sword balanced across her lap looked ornate, gems shining in the dancing unnatural light. The insignia on the woman's breast, too, glowed as if with an internal flame, and the woman's crimson eyes also burned in the darkness. Her hair was the same color of the fires, and ghostlights seemed to dance around her, blinking in and out of existence.

Berala's eyes widened as she looked again to the crest on the woman's chest, and she gaped at the monster sitting on her throne. In response, the demonic knight smiled at her, but the expression held the same edge as the sword in her lap. "Berala Blackaxe. It seems we need to have a little chat about your recent activities."

Berala swallowed loudly, staring in despair at the other woman while her subordinates slumbered loudly all around her. Briefly, she lamented having woken up at all. This, she decided with cold certainty, had not been a good day for her.

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Only one chapter remains. I shall return on Tuesday with the culmination of the tale, and hope you will join me then. Please let me know what you thought of this climatic chapter; it is important to me that I get it right._

 _I will admit that I have already begun work on the second long story of this series, which will continue the storyline, although with different primary characters. Do not fret; I am not done with any of the characters from_ Not Alone _; they will just be busy for the time being. Below, as is my tradition, is the preview for the next tale in this line:_

 **Wisdom in Shadow**

After the Holy Orders condemn a man for helping monsters, a young Inquisitor must make a dangerous choice to either follow orders or risk his own future to save a monster's life. Meanwhile, dark secrets loom from a mountaintop monastery... Features a kobold and a lich primarily, with other supporting monstergirls. Explicit content.

 _I hope you shall join me for this story as well. For now, though, allow me to thank you for reading this far; I hope my humble offerings have pleased you. I shall return for more, but now, I must sleep..._

 _~Wynn Pendragon_


	10. Heroes

Crusader Lord Julius Leopold scowled down at the charts before him, his mind focused on other matters than the daunting task that lay before him. As an experienced veteran of several campaigns, he had led forces to victory against rebels, secessionists, and monster sympathizers. He had fought, and killed, and bled, and had earned his title through sheer bloody-handed conquest. He had not, however, ever faced the literal decimation of his forces before the first battle could begin. The trap the monsters had laid for his men in the mountains had been devastatingly effective, and he could not even offer the rest of his soldiers a chance for vengeance, as all of the accessible mountain passes to the south had been destroyed at the same moment. The coordinated rockslides left his army no way to pursue the fleeing refugees until the stones were cleared and the roads restored, and that could easily take weeks.

And so, all he could do was see to the boarding of his men within the abandoned village, and send word of their tainted victory to the greater powers within the Barrier Cities, and prepare for the mission yet to come. He had not even looked over the place that was to serve as his own lodgings; the men that had surrendered to them as they had entered the village had pointed out this as the home of the bestial mayor of the town, and so he had claimed it as his own, but there was little to indicate it had belonged to any being of power. It was a fairly typical cabin, complete with two bedchambers and a large living room with a fireplace. As he was used to spartan conditions during his time at war, this was more than comfort enough for him, though he sneered at the 'luxury' these beasts had managed to achieve.

A polite rapping at the door did not pull his eyes away from the maps spread chaotically on the table before him, and he barked a command for the one who knocked to enter. The door swung open, and the rapping of hobnailed boots against the wooden cabin floor drew near to him before Leopold turned to glance at the man who had interrupted him. He immediately recognized the young man by his slicked-back dark hair and general look of discomfort; the soft lad had apparently never journeyed far outside the Barrier Cities, and had taken poorly to an extended trip upon a horse, his gait suggesting awkward soreness and blisters in the worst of locations. Despite his mildly-bowlegged march, the young knight carried himself with the regal dignity of a monarch, a contrast that brought a cruel smile to the Crusader's lips. "Inquisitor Errant Richard Miralis reporting, my lord." The young man offered a parade-ground salute and bowed his head respectfully, but Leopold was not fooled. He had seen too many ambitious upstarts with political daggers up their sleeves to relax around such a boy as this.

"Report," he commanded brusquely.

"Sir." The Errant raised his head, meeting Leopold's gaze without wavering. "Our forces have searched the town and apprehended all of the remaining residents. All of them are male, and are in the process of being interrogated by my Inquisitor superiors. Preliminary information suggests that most of the monsters fled by caravans on the main road, with only the final train leaving by the south. Some monsters, however, fled into the forest to the north."

"They'll regret that. Have the men that are judged innocent enough put into labor groups. Half will be sent to the mines; the rest to begin deforestation. Let them take the brunt of any resistance to our efforts here, but keep Purifiers on hand to intervene if monsters dare attack them." Leopold glanced at the map behind him once more. "Have the Warders begin scouting the southern mountains, also. They must report any routes that appear to have been repeatedly used in the past." The young man raised his eyebrow at that, but the Crusader gave him no further explanation. "Was anything else of interest found?"

The other man coughed, suddenly looking nakedly uncomfortable, his artifice falling in the face of his next words. "Well, sir, we did locate a strange clay statue hidden in the basement of one of the taverns. We believe it may have been some sort of fertility idol: it looked like a man, wearing a chef's hat, with exaggerated muscles and-" He choked on his words. "And a massively-oversized bulge below the belt, sir."

"Horrendous."

"Like a small melon, or-"

"That will be enough, Errant." Leopold shuddered in horror at the obscenity of the enemies of mankind.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

Again, Leopold looked to the charts that covered the table behind him. "Yes. Send in the prisoner we brought. I would speak to him, alone." The inquisitor offered his commander another sharp salute, but the Crusader Lord waved him off without looking, his mind already lost in the diagrams before him. He had been sent here with one mission above all else, and he would not waste a moment in achieving it. He would use any resource that it took in his search, even one that had been tainted by the monstrous wretches that opposed his holy empire.

Another knock at the door came minutes later, and again Leopold ordered it opened. This time he turned to watch the other man enter. This creature was far removed from the young man that had deposited him at the cabin's door, though he too was a man of fewer years than Leopold: instead of the immaculate colors of the Orders, the prisoner wore coarse linen rags, and instead of a greased style, the man's lanky, uncombed blond hair hung low in front of the dense spectacles perched unevenly upon his nose. The heretic's arms were painfully thin, partially from the life of an academic, partially from malnutrition. He weakly tottered forward, his blue eyes focused upon the ground between them, his lips tight and twitching nervously. He stopped a short distance away from the Crusader Lord, awaiting his orders as he rubbed at where the manacles had chafed at his wrists.

"Well, Axander Marinus," Crusader Lord Leopold started coldly, "you and I will be working together for a while. On pain of death, you will help me read these old maps to find any sign of the ruins I know lay in these mountains. Together, we will locate the Temple of Apollo, and bring the light of judgment on these cursed lands." His smile bared his teeth, but his eyes bared the zeal burning in his soul.

* * *

Night had fallen on the southern mountains, an ink-black stream that flowed into the ravines and seeped behind the boulders, shy of the moon's brilliant glow. The death of the sun had brought a new silence to the hills as even the wind whistled low through the winding paths, as if afraid of disturbing the ring of wagons sitting in the heart of the valley deep within the range. Those carts protectively circled a cluster of campfires that twinkled in the darkness, the dance of those flames suggesting a merriment that should not have been found amongst a crowd of refugees. Still, they had all survived the day, and that was cause enough for contentment, if not celebration.

High on the hill that sloped down into the valley, far above the ring of wagons, another campfire burned as one man watched over the group of men and monsters as they succumbed to slumber. Even he seemed atypically casual, still armored yet propped against a stone in a relaxed slouch, like a sated hunter resting off his last meal. He had even left his sword laying near his small campfire, casually discarded as he had taken up his watchpost.

Despite his relaxation, his head turned smoothly to face the woman approaching him, even though she had hardly made a single sound. She smiled at that, emerging into the light of his fire, her hand resting easily on the pommel of her own sword. She walked close to him, taking a seat on the ground beside him, taking a moment to sweep the ground beneath her with one hand while she pulled her cape out of the way with the other.

They sat in silence for a long moment, looking together over the drowsing caravan and the dimming lights of campfires burning lower. Finally, she was the first to speak. "The boy you mentioned, the chemist with the strange mana. He and his orc mate held off the bandits that would have attacked those wagons. Delfie and I rescued them, but he had managed to put all the bandits to sleep somehow. You were right about him after all."

The knight beside her nodded, then shook his head in disappointment. "If we lived in a different world, one where the gods we knew hadn't vanished, then he could have been a Hero." The man glanced over at his companion. "What about those bandits? They could still attack."

Ceann leaned back with a haughty smile, looking up to the heavens. "I spoke to them. They'll be too scared to cross a servant of the Demon Queen. Anyways, I made sure they knew that the young man had beaten them, so they wouldn't stand a chance against him and all his allies."

The knight stared incredulously at her. "You said what?" When she frowned at him, he released a deep groan, covering his helmet with his hand. "You told a bunch of orcs, even emphasized to them, that a man beat them? That poor bastard. They'll never stop chasing him now." Ceann stared at him blankly, confused, especially when he began to chuckle under his breath.

They sat in silence again for long minutes. At one point, Ceann shifted, moving her hand to adjust her weight. Her fingers brushed against his left gauntlet, and she pulled back, blushing, but that expression fell when it registered that he hadn't noticed at all. She nodded to herself, sitting up, crossing her arms over her chest.

A thought occurred to her, and her eyes narrowed as she glanced back to her partner sharply. "By the way… those explosions that sealed off the mountain passes. You waited a long time to trigger them. Why? Delfie said her sisters placed all the explosives early today."

The knight was slow in responding. Instead, he reached up, hooking his thumbs under the edge of his helmet. With a tug, he pulled it free, and shook his head as the cold night air embraced his skin. Under the armor, his youthful face looked to better match a man used to wielding a pitchfork than a sword, with unkempt brown hair and an aquiline nose. He didn't meet her gaze, lowering his helm to the earth. "The Orders came for the refugees. I merely showed them why that was a bad idea."

"You murdered them, John." Ceann nodded to herself when he didn't deny her accusation, a wave of cold realization embracing her, her expression stricken. "After our Mistress warned you-"

"Don't worry, Ceann." She looked at him, and flinched back from the golden gleam in his eyes as he grinned at her. "I just killed all of the monsters. After all, isn't that what a Hero is supposed to do?"

* * *

When Roger Miralis opened his eyes, he knew that he was not alone. There was a monster in his bed.

It took him a long moment to figure out that his bed was not, in fact, a bed at all. Instead, he lay on the ground atop a thin bedroll, covered by one of his old blankets. Priscilla was snuggled tightly into his side, her smile blissful. He smiled down at her slumbering face, distracted from his wakening thoughts, but the dancing firelight drew his attention enough to force his brain to resume its march to consciousness. He gazed at the campfire a short distance from where they slept for a long, mind-blank moment before looking back to Priscilla, noticing the bruises and scuffs on her face.

Berala. The cave. The diffusers. He had fallen asleep carrying Priscilla to safety. Roger sat upright with a start, and beside him Priscilla grunted and clutched tighter to him, trying to wrestle him back down into the bed. As Roger noticed that they were no longer within the bandits' cavern, but instead under the open sky, he allowed her to drag him back down, and she cuddled him all the more intensely with a pleased mumble.

"Do not worry." Roger turned his head to see another woman seated a distance away from him, watching him with an amused smile on her lips. She was no one familiar to Roger; while he was acquainted with several harpies, this woman's wings came from her back, while her arms ended in taloned hands. Her legs, however, were furred and leonine, and a tufted tail twitched from side to side behind where she sat atop a wooden crate. Her hair was brown, feathered with white, matching her plumage. She wore an embroidered deerskin shawl and a matching sash, but nothing else, leaving the bottoms of her breasts bared to his averted eyes. She laughed harshly at his shy reaction before continuing. "You are among friends. The Lady of the Blade bade me carry you and your mate out of those caverns after we went in to find you. Your lizard friend told her about the way you two went in there to save the caravan. That was very brave."

Raising his head just enough to avoid disturbing Priscilla, Roger looked about them. His makeshift bed was at the edge of the light of one campfire, but many other fires glowed around them, shadowed by wagons and the silhouettes of those who had not yet retired to their own patches of earth. Above them, twin mountains framed the sky, and Roger realized the caravan had made it to the valley they had been seeking. The carts had escaped the mountain roads, and thanks to that rather imposing woman, he and Priscilla had rejoined them.

A closer examination of the carts around showed many familiar faces. Not far away, in the shadow of a large clay jug, Mithal laid asleep, though his face looked tormented. It was easy to discover why; five bulges were pressed against his body under his blanket, including a larger one that seemed to have claimed his thighs as her pillows while her sisters clung like lampreys to the chef's various limbs. Beyond them, metal chimed quietly in the night as a cyclops bent over a small anvil, hard at work repairing battered armor, sending sparks soaring like newborn stars into the sky, while near her an ogre lay collapsed amid a collection of drained bottles. Not far from Roger was seated a small bowl in which was planted a familiar flower, and looking at it he felt a projected feeling of shared contentment, as if a distant alraune were watching over him. Finally, across the fire from him was seated the leader of the lizardman mercenaries, who was leaned back and staring up at the heavens with a faint smile of relief.

Roger nodded. He _was_ among friends. He looked down contentedly to Priscilla, only to discover her looking up at him with open eyes. They were silent a moment before she drew closer, kissing him, then sitting up to look around. She nodded her thanks to the winged woman, who returned the nod silently. The blanket slipped from Priscilla's arms, and she shivered in the night air until Roger sat up beside her, wrapping his arm over her shoulders, trying delicately to avoid one dark bruise.

"I'm sorry about what happened with Berala and the others," Roger said quietly, squeezing her as tightly as he dared.

Her head turned as she gave him a confused glance. "Why are you apologizing? I was the one that ruined your plan when I insisted on fighting Berala. I should be apologizing for that, because I put you in danger." Her face fell, and she glanced up at him through her bangs, her eyes pleading for forgiveness.

"I know why you had to do it," he said, leaning over to kiss her head. He choked down thoughts about what had nearly happened to him. If they hadn't been rescued… "No, I meant I'm sorry that you couldn't work things out with them. They are your sisters, and-"

Her hand stopped his words as she gently caressed his cheek. She shook her head, looking at him all the while. "It's okay. I don't need to prove myself to them, not anymore. I have something they can never find." She leaned forward, brushing her lips against his. "Anyways," she purred, leaning back, mischief cavorting in her eyes, "I'll just start my own tribe."

Roger's brow furrowed as he looked down at her. "What do you mean?" Priscilla didn't answer, instead looking around the campfire. "Priscilla, what are you talking about-?"

"Lacy!" Priscilla called in a profoundly unsubtle whisper. "Come here!" Answering her beckon, Lacerta rose and walked towards them, her curiosity obvious. Ignoring the way her lover was staring at her, Priscilla beamed a smile up at the lizardwoman. "Why is your bedroll so far away? That has to be lonely. Come join us over here."

Roger felt a cold fear trickle into his stomach as he pondered his lover's actions. She responded to it with a devious grin, averted only when Lacerta returned carrying her bedding. "No, no, not here, this ground isn't soft at all. Over there." Priscilla pointed to the other side of Roger, confirming his suspicions. Lacerta looked away from him, her livid blush visible in the firelight, but she had come too far to refuse without looking even more awkward, so she followed her orcish subordinate's instructions, placing her bedding just on the other side of Roger. The chemist swallowed as he heard her placing her bedroll, not too close to him, yet still close enough to leave both man and mercenary blushing, and close enough to paint an eager smile on the scheming orc's face.

Roger collapsed back onto his bed with a sigh, staring up at the stars. Despite himself, he wore a smile, even as Priscilla laid back down into the curl of his arm, even as Lacy scooted closer, her tail brushing against his leg. He smiled into the night, even as he wondered what sky he would be under tomorrow, even as he knew their life would be changed in ways he hadn't even realized yet. He smiled as he fell asleep, looking forward to discovering what the next day would bring to him and all those he loved.

No matter what happened, he wouldn't be alone.

 **The End**

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _And so it is finished. This project, begun from the boredom of proctoring the PSAT and storyboarded on notebook paper over the course of a single hour, has taken me from October 10th to November 22nd. Not bad, honestly, for something over 60k words in length. I would like to use this chance to thank my readers, and especially those who commented, in particular Lazaryan, GioMM, jorge, Ghost, and my old friend Anzer'ke. Your words gave me strength, and for that I am appreciative._

 _Next, as is my usual habit with longer tales, I will explain my naming choices. For my names, I tend to use modified historical names. Any similarity between my characters and historical personages is purely coincidental, of course, as the standard disclaimer states, but the names are an easy way of tying a character to their profession… for those who know entirely too much history, I suppose. So, in no particular order:_  
 _ **Humans:**_ _Roger's name is based off of a natural philosopher, Roger Bacon (Bacon, geddit? He gets with an orc…), who was also called Doctor Mirabilis. His chief rival was named Richard, which was close enough to Roger to use for his brother's name (Foreshadowing?). Mithal is named after an ancient chef, Mithaecus, as well as a French chef named Guillaume Tirel. Old Stu emerged as I searched for a name that could be shortened, yet seen as too formal for a man such as he. The Crusader Lord at the end is named in honor of a famous Austrian general, since he comes from the equivalent in my setting of Vienna, as well as Julius Caesar, since the Crusaders use Roman-styled armor, and I wanted a general with a certain gravity to his character. Stephano, however, is a common enough Italian name, and he comes from Palatine City, my Rome equivalent._  
 _ **Monsters:**_ _Priscilla, well… I liked the sound of it, and the alliteration opportunities, same as Berala (who, you may not be surprised to discover, I am not done with). Lacerta is not named after the newt-shaped constellation as much as the family_ Lacertidae _. Kana, who is a green ogre with some history in Zipangu, has a suitably oriental name, and is a reference to the kanabo, a spiked club. Bronda is a corruption of the mythological cyclops Brontes. Delfie, a griffon from the ruined temple, is named after Delphi, a shrine to Apollo. Rosa – no subtlety here, sorry, and the dryad she mentions (Picea) is a genus of trees. The goblins, I just sounded out as I wanted a familial naming pattern. Tara, sorry, is a corruption of Minotaur, just as Belinda is a play off 'Bee.'_  
 _ **The Remainders:**_ _As for the final names I can think to mention, John, Ceann, and Mephis… well, they can wait for another story._

 _Now, when next I return, it shall be with another tale, featuring a different protagonist and different heroines. Don't worry, however; I am_ very _far from finished with Roger, Priscilla, and the rest. I am already three chapters into the successor story, and hope you enjoy it just as much. The genre is slightly different (a greater hint of mystery this time!), and the beginning is atypically dark for my writing, but that is quickly counterbalanced by increased cuteness and salacious content, so I pray you bear with my graver side._

 _But this story is at an end, and I must now conserve my energy to write onward, more and more. And to do that, if only for a little while, I must sleep..._

 _~Wynn Pendragon_


End file.
